THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  ILLINOIS 
LIBRARY 

From  the  collection,  of 
Julius  Boerner,  Chicago 
Purchased,  1918. 

821 
W58 

1873 


fit  UBBMR 
OF  TIE 

MGfcSITY  fiF 1. 


Childhood.— P.  207. 


THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


AND  REMAINS  OF 


HENEY  KIEKE  WHITE. 


LIFE   BY   ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


ILLUSTRATED    BY    BIRKET  FOSTER. 


BOSTON: 

LEE  AND  SHEPARD,  PUBLISHERS. 

NEW  YORK: 
LEE,  SHEPARD,  AND  DILLINGHAM. 
1873. 


(8  73 

CONTENTS. 


MEMOIR  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE  J 

Poems  inserted  in  the  Memoir. 

On  being  confined  to  School  one  pleasant  Morning  in  Spring, 

written  at  the  Age  of  Thirteen   3 

Extract  from  an  Address  to  Contemplation,  written  at  Fourteen  5 

To  the  Rosemary   14 

To  the  Morning  «    .    «  15 

My  own  Character   20 

Ode  on  Disappointment   25 

Lines,  written  in  Wilford  Churchyard,  on   Recovery  from 

Sickness   28 

LETTERS  44 

Poems  inserted  in  the  Letters. 

Elegy,  occasioned  by  the  Death  of  Mr.  Gill,  who  was  drowned 

in  the  River  Trent   58 

'Yes,  my  stray  Steps  have  wandered  '  J  23 

Hints,  &c.     .   177 

A  Prayer  178 

A  Prayer  •  179 

TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 

Sonnet,  by  G.  L.  C  18] 

 ,  by  Arthur  Owen,  Esq  181 

 ,  by  H.  Welker  «  182 

Lines,  by  the  Rev.  J.  Plumptre  183 

Sonnet,  by  Capel  Lofft,  Esq  183 

Lines,  written  in  St.  John's  College  184 


iv 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Sonnet,  by  Capel  Lofft  ,  185 

Written  in  the  Homer  of  Mr.  Henry  Kirke  White  186 

To  the  Memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  a  Lady  ....  186 
Stanzas,  supposed  to  have  been  written  at  the  Grave  of  Henry 

Kirke  White,  by  a  Lady  189 

Ode  on  the  late  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  Juvenis  .  .  ,  .  190 
Verses  occasioned  by  the  Death  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by 

Josiah  Conder  •  J 91 

Sonnet,  on  seeing  another,  written  to  Henry  Kirke  White,  in 

•September,  1803,  inserted  in  his  *  Remains,  by  Robert 

Southey,'  by  Arthur  Owen  v93 

Sonnet,  in  Memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  J.  G.  ...  J  93 
Reflections  on  Reading  the  Life  of  the  late  Henry  Kirke  White, 

by  Wm.  Holloway  194 

Lines  suggested  on  Reading  the  Poem  on  Solitude,  in  the 

Second  Volume  of  Henry  Kirke  White's  '  Remains,'  by 

f.  Conder  ]95 

To  the  Memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Collyer  196 
Lines  on  the  Death  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  T.  Park  .  .  .  197 
To  the  Memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  a  Lady  .  .  .  .198 
Lines  written  on  visiting  the  Rooms  once  inhabited  by  Henry 

Kirke  White,  in  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  by  Mrs. 

M.  H.  Hay  200 

Reflection  on  the  early  Death  of  Henrj  Kirke  White,  by  a  Lady  200 

Extract  from  a  Poem  recently  published  201 

Monody  to  the  Memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  Joseph 

Blackett  202 

On  visiting  the  Tomb  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  by  Mrs.  M.  H.  Hay  205 
Lines  written  on  reading  the  Remains  of  Henry  Kirke  White, 

of  Nottingham,  late  of  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge; 

■with  an  Account  of  his  Life,  by  Robert  Southey,  Esq.,  by 

Mrs.  M.  H.  Hay  205 


POEMS  WRITTEN  BEFORE  THE  PUBLICATION  OF 
CLIFTON  GROVE. 


Childhood,  Part  I  

 II  

Fragment  of  an  Eccentric  Drama 
To  a  Friend   


207 
212 
220 
225 


CONTENTS.  V 

TAGS 

On  Reading  the  Poems  of  Warton   227 

To  the  Muse  228 

Song,  '  Softly,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes'  *    .    .  229 

The  Wandering  Boy   .  230 

Fragment, '  The  Western  Gale'  ,    »    .  231 

Canzonet     233 

Commencement  of  a  Poem  on  Despair  234 

To  the  Wind,  a  Fragment  235 

The  Eve  of  Death   230 

Thanatos   237 

Athanatos  238 

On  Music  239 

Ode  to  the  Harvest  Moon   ...  241 

The  Shipwreck'd  Solitary's  Song  243 

POEMS  PUBLISHED  UNDER  THE  TITLE  OF 
CLIFTON  GROVE,  &c. 

Original  Preface  to  Clifton  Grove  247 

To  my  Lyre   249 

Clifton  Grove  251 

Gondoline,  a  Ballad  205 

Written  on  a  Survey  of  the  Heavens,  in  the  Morning  before 

Day-break  274 

Lines  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  a  Lover  at  the  Grave  of  his 

Mistress  276 

My  Study     .   .278 

To  an  Early  Primrose  280 

Sonnet  1.    To  the  Trent  282 

 2.    *  Give  me  a  Cottage  on  some  Cambrian  Wild'  .    .  282 

 3.    Supposed  to  have  been  addressed  by  a  Female 

Lunatic  to  a  Lady  283 

 4.    In  the  Character  of  Dermody    .    .    .    ,        .    .  283 

 5.    The  Winter  Traveller  284 

 6.    By  Capel  Lofft,  Esq  284 

 7.    Recantatory  in  reply  285 

 8.    On  hearing  an  ^Eolian  Harp    .  '  285 

.  9.    k  What  art  thou,  Mighty  One*   286 

•  Be  hush'd,  be  hush'd,  ye  bitter  Winds'  287 

The  Lullaby  of  a  Female  Convict  to  her  Child     .....  288 


A 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  DURING,  OR  SHORTLY  AFTER,  THE 
PUBLICATION  OF  CLIFTON  GROVE. 


Ode  to  H.  Fuseli,  Esq.,  R.  A  *    .  2841 

—  to  the  Earl  of  Carlisle  292 

Description  of  a  Summer's  Eve  *    ,    .    .  294 

To  Contemplation   296 

To  the  Genius  of  Romance.    Fragment .    .    .        ....  300 

The  Savoyard's  Return  301 

1  Go  to  the  raging  Sea,  and  say,  be  still' .    .  30& 

Written  in  the  Prospect  of  Death  303 

Pastoral  Song,  *  Come,  Anna,  come'  .    •  305 

To  Midnight   .  306 

To  Thought.    Written  at  Midnight  307 

Genius  308 

Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  the  Moon  311 

Fragment, 4  Oh,  thou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train'    ....  312 

Sonnet,  To  Capel  Lofft,  Esq  31-1 

 To  the  Moon  314 

 Written  at  the  Grave  of  a  Friend  315 

—  To  Misfortune  315 

 *  As  thus  oppress'd  with  many  a  heavy  Care' .    .    .  .316 

 To  April  316 

 'Ye  unseen  Spirits'  317 

 To  a  Taper  317 

 '  Yes  !  'twill  be  over  soon'     .         ,        .....  318 

 To  Consumption  318 

 4  Thy  judgments,  Lord,  are  just'     .......  319 

POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 

To  a  Friend  in  Distress,  who,  when  H.  K.  W.  reasoned  with  him 

calmly,  asked,  if  he  did  not  feel  for  him  320 

Christmas  Day  321 

Nelsoni  Mors  ♦    5   .  323 

Hymn,  4  Awake  sweet  Harp  of  Judah,  wake'  324 

Hymn  for  Famiiy  Worship  „    ,    .  326 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  327 

Hymn,  4  O  Lord,  my  God,  in  Mercy  turn'  328 

Melody,  *  Yes,  once  more  that  dying  Strain'  328 

Song,  by  Waller,  with  an  additional  Stanza  329 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PA?B 

CT  am  pleased,  and  yet  I'm  sad'  330 

Solitude  331 

If  far  from  me  the  Fates  remove'  332 

Fanny,  upon  thy  Breast  I  may  not  lie'  333 
Verses,  *  Thou  base  Repiner  at  another's  joy*  »  .  .  .  ,  .  334 
Epigram  on  Robert  Bloomfield  ......        -   •   .    .  335 

FRAGMENTS. 

I.  *  Saw'st  thou  that  Light  ?'   836 

II.  1  The  pious  man,  in  this  bad  World*   337 

TTI.  (  Lo !  on  the  eastern  Summit'  337 

TV.  1  There  was  a  little  Bird  upon  that  Pile'  .  .  .  .  .  337 
V.  '  O  pale  art  thou,  my  Lamp'   .  338 

VI.  1 0  give  me  Musio'   ,    ,    ,  338 

VII.  '  Ah !  who  can  say,  however  fair  his  View'  .  „  ,  „  339 
VIII.  4  And  must  thou  go  ?'  339 

IX.  *  When  I  sit  musing  on  the  chequer'd  Past'  ....  340 
X.  *  When  high  Romance,  o'er  every  Wood  and  Stream     .  340 

XI.  '  Hush'd  is  the  Lyre'  341 

XII.  *  Once  more,  and  yet  once  more  341 

Fragment,  c  Loud  rage  the  winds  without'  342 

Verses,  *  When  Pride  and  Envy'  343 

 On  Whit  Monday  344 

 —  On  the  Death  of  Dermody,  the  Poet  345 

Song,  The  Wonderful  Juggler  347 

Sonnet,  To  my  Mother  349 

 1  Sweet  to  the  gay  of  heart'   ...  349 

 '  Quick  o'er  the  wintry  waste'     ........  350 

TIME   351 

THE  CtlRISTIAD  369 

PROSE  COMPOSITIONS. 

Remarks  on  the  English  Poets   381 

Sternhold  and  Hopkins  384 

Remarks  on  the  English  Poets.  Warton  387 

Cursory  Remarks  on  Tragedy  ....        .    .    .    .    .    .  390 

Melancholy  Hours,  No.   I   395 

 II  398 

 Ill  402 

 IV  407 


Vlli  CONTENTS.  * 

Melancholy  Hours,  No.  V.     .    ....    ~    ......  411 

 VT.     .    t   .    .  416 

 VII  421 

 VIII  4v>5 

  IX  430 

 X  437 

 XI  440 

 XII  ,        *   .    .    ,   .  44U 

REFLECTIONS. 

I.  On  Prayer  ......  449 

li.     ....    -  453 

ir.    .     .  i«- 


LIFE 

OF 

HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


It  fell  to  my  lot  to  publish,  with  the  assistance  of  my  friend 
Mr.  Cottle,  the  first  collected  edition  of  the  works  of  Chat- 
terton,  in  whose  history  I  felt  a  more  than  ordinary  interest, 
as  being  a  native  of  the  same  city,  familiar  from  my  childhood 
with  those  great  objects  of  art  and  nature  by  which  he  had 
been  so  deeply  impressed,  and  devoted  from  my  childhood  witt 
the  same  ardour  to  the  same  pursuits.  It  is  now  my  fortune 
to  lay  before  the  world  some  account  of  one  whose  early  death 
is  not  less  to  be  lamented  as  a  loss  to  English  literature,  and 
whose  virtues  were  as  admirable  as  his  genius.  In  the  present- 
instance,  there  is  nothing  to  be  recorded  but  what  is  honour- 
able to  himself,  and  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived ;  little  to  be 
regretted,  but  that  one  so  ripe  for  heaven  should  so  soon  have 
been  removed  from  the  world. 

»; 

Henry  Kirke  White,  the  second  son  of  John  and  Mary 
White,  was  born  in  Nottingham,  March  21st,  1785.  His 
father  is  a  bt^cher;  his  mother,  whose  maiden  name  was 
Neville,  is  of  a  respectable  Staffordshire  family. 

Erom  the  years  of  three  till  five,  Henry  learnt  to  read  at  the 
school  of  Mrs.  Garrington;  whose  name,  unimportant  as  it 
may  appear,  is  mentioned,  because  she  had  the  good  sense  to 
perceive  his  extraordinary  capacity,  and  spoke  of  what  it  pro- 
mised with  confidence.    She  was  an  excellent  woman,  and  he 

B 


2 


LIFE  OP 


describes  her  with  affection  in  his  poem  upon  Childhood.  At 
a  very  early  age  his  love  of  reading  was  decidedly  manifested; 
it  was  a  passion  to  which  everything  else  gave  way.  "  I  could 
fancy/'  says  his  eldest  sister,  "  I  see  him  in  his  little  chair, 
with  a  large  book  upon  his  knee,  and  my  mother  calling, 
'Henry,  my  love,  come  to  dinner;'  which  was  repeated  so 
often  without  being  regarded,  that  she  was  obliged  to  change 
the  tone  of  her  voice  before  she  could  rouse  him."  When  he 
was  about  seven,  he  would  creep  unperceived  into  the  kitchen, 
to  teach  the  servant  to  read  and  write ;  and  he  continued  this 
for  some  time  before  it  was  discovered  that  he  had  been  thus 
laudably  employed.  He  wrote  a  tale  of  a  Swiss  emigrant, 
which  was  probably  his  first  composition,  and  gave  it  to  this 
servant,  being  ashamed  to  show  it  to  his  mother.  The  con- 
sciousness of  genius  is  always  at  first  accompanied  with  this 
diffidence ;  it  is  a  sacred,  solitary  feeling.  No  forward  child, 
however  extraordinary  the  promise  of  his  childhood,  ever  pro- 
duced anything  truly  great. 

When  Henry  was  about  six,  he  was  placed  under  the 
Rev.  J ohn  Blanchard,  who  kept,  at  that  time,  the  best  school 
in  Nottingham.  Here  he  learnt  writing,  arithmetic,  and 
IVench.  When  he  was  about  eleven,  he  one  day  wrote  a 
separate  theme  for  every  boy  in  his  class,  which  consisted 
of  about  twelve  or  fourteen.  The  master  said  he  had  never 
known  them  write  so  well  upon  any  subject  before,  and  could 
not  refrain  from  expressing  his  astonishment  at  the  excellence 
of  Henry's.  It  was  considered  as  a  great  thing  for  him  to 
be  at  so  good  a  school,  yet  there  were  some  circumstances 
which  rendered  it  less  advantageous  to  him  than  it  might 
have  been.  Mrs.  White  had  not  yet  overcome  her  husband's 
intention  of  breeding  him  up  to  his  own  business:  and  by  an 
arrangement  which  took  up  too  much  of  his  time,  and  would 
have  crushed  his  spirit,  if  that  "  mounting  spirit"  could  have 
been  crushed,  one  whole  day  in  the  week,  and  his  leisure 
hours  on  the  others,  were  employed  in  carrying  the  butcher's 
basket.  Some  differences  at  length  arose  between  his  fathe. 
and  Mr.  Blanchard,  in  consequence  of  which  Henry  was 
removed. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


3 


One  of  the  ushers,  when  he  came  to  receive  the  money 
due  for  tuition,  took  the  opportunity  of  informing  Mrs. 
White  what  an  incorrigible  son  she  had,  and  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  make  the  lad  do  anything.  This  information  made 
his  friends  very  uneasy;  they  were  dispirited  about  him;  and 
had  they  relied  wholly  upon  this  report,  the  stupidity  or  malice 
of  this  man  would  have  blasted  Henry's  progress  for  ever. 
He  was,  however,  placed  under  the  care  of  a  Mr.  Shipley, 
who  soon  discovered  that  he  was  a  boy  of  quick  perception 
and  very  admirable  talents,  and  came  with  joy,  like  a  good 
man,  to  relieve  the  anxiety  and  painful  suspicions  of  his 
family. 

While  his  schoolmasters  were  complaining  that  they  couli 
make  nothing  of  him,  he  discovered  what  Nature  had  mad© 
him,  and  wrote  satires  upon  them.  These  pieces  were  never 
shown  to  any  except  his  most  particular  friends,  who  say 
that  they  were  pointed  and  severe.  They  are  enumerated  in 
the  table  of  Contents  to  one  of  his  manuscript  volumes,  under 
the  title  of  School-Lampoons ;  but,  as  was  to  be  expected,  he 
had  cut  the  leaves  out  and  destroyed  them. 

One  of  his  poems  written  at  this  time,  and  under  these  feel- 
ings, is  preserved. 

ON  BEING  CONFINED  TO  SCHOOL  ONE  PLEASANT 
MORNING  IN  SPRING. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  THIRTEEN. 

The  morning  sun's  enchanting  rays 
Now  call  forth  every  songster's  praise ; 
Now  the  lark  with  upward  flight, 
Gaily  ushers  in  the  light ; 
While  wildly  warbling  from  each  tree, 
The  birds  sing  songs  to  liberty. 

But  for  me  no  songster  sings, 
For  me  no  joyous  lark  up-springs ; 
Tor  I,  confin'd  in  gloomy  school, 
Must  own  the  pedant's  iron  rule, 
b  2 


4 


LIFE  OF 


And  far  from  sylvan  shades  and  bowers, 
In  durance  vile  must  pass  the  hours ; 
There  con  the  scholiast's  dreary  lines, 
Where  no  bright  ray  of  genius  shines, 
And  close  to  rugged  learning  cling, 
"While  laughs  around  the  jocund  spring. 

How  gladly  would  my  soul  forego 
All  that  arithmeticians  know, 
Or  stiff  grammarians  quaintly  teach, 
Or  all  that  industry  can  reach, 
To  taste  each  morn  of  all  the  joys 
That  with  the  laughing  sun  arise ; 
And  unconstrain'd  to  rove  along 
The  bushy  brakes  and  glens  among ; 
And  woo  the  muse's  gentle  power 
In  unfrequented  rural  bower ! 
But  ah !  such  heav'n-approaching  joys 
Will  never  greet  my  longing  eyes ; 
Still  will  they  cheat  in  vision  fine, 
Yet  never  but  in  fancy  shine. 

Oh,  that  I  were  the  little  wren 
That  shrilly  chirps  from  yonder  glen ! 
Oh,  far  away  I  then  would  rove, 
To  some  secluded  bushy  grove ; 
There  hop  and  sing  with  careless  glee, 
Hop  and  sing  at  liberty ; 
And  till  death  should  stop  my  lays, 
Tar  from  men  would  spend  my  days. 

About  this  time  his  mother  was  induced,  by  the  advice  of 
several  friends,  to  open  a  ladies'  boarding  and  day  school  in 
Nottingham,  her  eldest  daughter  having  previously  been  a 
teacher  in  one  for  some  time.  In  this  she  succeeded  beyond 
her  most  sanguine  expectations,  and  Henry's  home  comforts 
were  thus  materially  increased,  though  it  was  still  out  of  the 
power  of  his  family  to  give  him  that  education  and  direction 
in  life  which  his  talents  deserved  and  required. 

It  was  now  determined  to  breed  him  up  to  the  hosiery 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


5 


trade,  the  staple  manufacture  of  his  native  pkce,  and  at  the 
age  of  fourteen  he  was  placed  in  a  stocking-loom,  with  the 
view,  at  some  future  period,  of  getting  a  situation  in  a  hosier's 
warehouse.  During  the  time  that  he  was  thus  employed,  he 
might  be  said  to  be  truly  unhappy ;  he  went  to  his  work  with 
evident  reluctance,  and  could  not  refrain  from  sometimes 
hinting  liis  extreme  aversion  to  it :  but  the  circumstances  of 
his  family  obliged  them  to  turn  a  deaf  ear.*   His  mother, 

*  His  temper  and  tone  of  mind  at  this  period,  when  he  was  in 
his  fourteenth  year,  are  displayed  in  this  extract  from  an  Address 
to  Contemplation. 

Thee  do  I  own,  the  prompter  of  my  joys, 
The  soother  of  my  cares,  inspiring  peace ; 
And  I  will  ne'er  forsake  thee.    Men  may  rave, 
And  blame  and  censure  me,  that  T  don't  tie 
My  ev'ry  thought  down  to  the  desk,  and  spend 
The  morning  of  my  life  in  adding  figures 
With  accurate  monotony;  that  so 
The  good  things  of  the  world  may  be  my  lot, 
And  I  might  taste  the  blessedness  of  wealth: 
But,  oh!  I  was  not  made  for  money  getting; 
For  me  no  much-respected  plum  awaits, 
Nor  civic  honour,  envied — For  as  still 
I  tried  to  cast  with  school  dexterity 
The  interesting  sums,  my  vagrant  thoughts 
Would  quick  revert  to  many  a  woodland  haunt, 
Which  fond  remembrance  cherish'd,  and  the  pen 
Dropt  firm  my  senseless  fingers  as  I  pictur'd, 
In  my  mind's  eye,  how  on  the  shores  of  Trent 
I  erewhile  wander'd  with  my  early  friends 
In  social  intercourse.    And  then  I'd  think 
How  contrary  pursuits  had  thrown  us  wide, 
One  from  the  other,  scatter' d  o'er  the  globe; 
They  were  set  down  with  sober  steadiness, 
Each  to  his  occupation.    I  alone, 
A  wayward  youth,  misled  by  Fancy's  vagaries, 
Bemain'd  unsettled,  insecure,  and  veering 
With  ev'ry  wind  to  ev'ry  point  o'  th'  compass 
Yes,  in -the  Counting  House  I  could  indulge 
In  fits  of  close  abstraction;  yea,  amid 


6 


LIFE  OP 


however,  secretly  felt  that  he  was  worthy  of  better  things : 
to  her  he  spoke  more  openly :  he  could  not  bear,  he  said,  the 
thought  of  spending  seven  years  of  his  life  in  shining  and 
folding  up  stockings;  he  wanted  something  to  occupy  his 
hrain,  and  he  should  be  wretched  if  he  continued  longer  at 
this  trade,  or  indeed  in  anything  except  one  of  the  learned 
professions.    These  frequent  complaints,  after  a  year's  appli- 

Tlie  busy  bustling  crowds  could  meditate, 

And  send  my  thoughts  ten  thousand  leagues  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic,  resting  on  my  friend. 

Aye,  Contemplation,  ev'n  in  earliest  youth 

1  woo'd  thy  heav'nly  influence !  I  would  walk 

A  weary  way  when  all  my  toils  were  done, 

To  lay  myself  at  night  in  some  lone  wood, 

And  hear  the  sweet  song  of  the  nightingale. 

Oh,  those  were  times  of  happiness,  and  still 

To  memory  doubly  dear ;  for  growing  years 

Had  not  then  taught  me  mau  was  made  to  mourn; 

And  a  short  hour  of  solitary  pleasure, 

Stolen  from  sleep,  was  ample  recompence 

For  all  the  hateful  bustles  of  the  day. 

My  op'ning  mind  was  ductile  then,  and  plastic, 

And  soon  the  marks  of  care  were  worn  away, 

While  I  was  sway'd  by  every  novel  impulse, 

Yielding  to  aU  the  fancies  of  the  hour. 

But  it  has  now  assum'd  its  character ; 

Mailed  by  strong  lineaments,  its  haughty  tone, 

Like  the  firm  oak,  would  sooner  break  than  bend. 

Yet  still,  oh,  Contemplation  !  I  do  love 

To  indulge  thy  solemn  musings ;  still  the  same 

With  thee  alone  I  know  to  melt  and  weep, 

In  thee  alone  delighting.    Why  along 

The  dusky  track  of  commerce  should  I  toil, 

When  with  an  easy  competence  content, 

I  can  alone  be  happy ;  where  with  thee 

I  may  enjoy  the  loveliness  of  nature, 

And  loose  the  wings  of  Fancy  ! — Thus  alone 

Can  I  partake  of  happiness  on  Earth  ;  . 

And  to  be  happy  here  is  man's  chief  end, 

For  to  be  happy  he  must  needs  be  goode 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


7 


cation,  or  rather  misapplication  (as  his  brother  says),  at  the 
loom,  convinced  her  that  he  had  a  mind  destined  for  nobler 
pursuits.  To  one  so  situated,  and  with  nothing  but  his  own 
talents  and  exertions  to  depend  upon,  the  Law  seemed  to 
be  the  only  practicable  line.  His  affectionate  and  excellent 
mother  made  every  possible  effort  to  effect  his  wishes,  his 
father  being  very  averse  to  the  plan,  and  at  length,  after  over- 
coming a  variety  of  obstacles,  he  was  fixed  in  the  office  of 
Messrs.  Coldham  and  Enfield,  attorneys  and  town-clerks  of 
Nottingham.  As  no  premium  could  be  given  with  him,  he 
was  engaged  to  serve  two  years  before  he  was  articled,  so  that 
though  he  entered  this  office  when  he  was  fifteen,  he  was  not 
articled  till  the  commencement  of  the  year  1802. 

On  thus  entering  the  law,  it  was  recommended  to  him  by 
his  employers,  that  he  should  endeavour  to  obtain  some  know- 
ledge of  Latin.  He  had  now  only  the  little  time  which  an 
attorney's  office,  in  very  extensive  practice,  afforded;  but 
great  things  may  be  done  in  ( '  those  hours  of  leisure  which 
oven  the  busiest  may  create,"*  and  to  his  ardent  mind  no 
obstacles  were  too  discouraging.  He  received  some  instruc- 
tion in  the  first  rudiments  of  this  language  from  a  person  who 
then  resided  at  Nottingham  under  a  feigned  name,  but  was 
soon  obliged  to  leave  it,  to  elude  the  search  of  govermnent, 
who  were  then  seeking  to  secure  him.  Henry  discovered  him 
to  be  Mr.  Cormick,  from  a  print  affixed  to  a  continuation  of 
Hume  and  Smollett,  and  published,  with  their  histories,  by 
Cooke.  He  is,  I  believe,  the  same  person  who  wrote  a  life 
of  Burke.  If  he  received  any  other  assistance,  it  was  very 
trifling ;  yet,  in  the  course  of  ten  months,  he  enabled  himself 
to  read  Horace  with  tolerable  facility,  and  had  made  some 
progress  in  Greek,  which  indeed  he  began  first.  He  used  to 
exercise  himself  in  declining  the  Greek  nouns  and  verbs  as  he 
was  going  to  and  from  the  office,  so  valuable  was  time  become 
to  him.  From  this  time  he  contracted  a  habit  of  employing 
his  mind  in  study  during  his  walks,  which  he  continued  to  tha 
end  of  his  life. 

*  Turner's  Preface  to  the  History  of  the  Anglo- Saxoua. 


8 


LIFE  OP 


He  now  became  almost  estranged  from  hi?  family  «wen  at 
his  meals  he  would  be  reading,  and  his  evenings  were  entirely 
devoted  to  intellectual  improvement.  He  had  a  little  room 
given  him,  which  was  called  his  study,  and  here  his  milk 
supper  was  taken  up  to  him ;  for,  to  avoid  any  loss  of  time, 
he  refused  to  sup  with  his  family,  through  earnestly  entreated 
so  to  do,  as  his  mother  already  began  to  dread  the  effects  of 
this  severe  and  unremitting  application.  The  law  was  his  first 
pursuit,  to  which  his  papers  show  he  had  applied  himself  with 
such  industry,  as  to  make  it  wonderful  that  he  could  have 
found  time,  busied  as  his  days  were,  for  anything  else.  Greek 
and  Latin  were  the  next  objects  :  at  the  same  time  he  made 
himself  a  tolerable  Italian  scholar,  and  acquired  some  know- 
ledge both  of  the  Spanish  and  Portuguese.  His  medical 
friends  say  that  the  knowledge  he  had  obtained  of  chemistry 
wras  very  respectable.  Astronomy  and  electricity  were  among 
his  studies  :  some  attention  he  paid  to  drawing,  in  which  it  is 
probable  he  would  have  excelled.  He  was  passionately  fond 
of  music,  and  could  play  very  pleasingly  by  ear  on  the  pivio 
forte,  composing  the  bass  to  the  air  he  was  playing ;  but  th,'s 
propensity  he  checked,  lest  it  might  interfere  with  more  im- 
portant objects.  He  had  a  turn  for  mechanics,  and  all  the 
fittings  up  of  his  study  were  the  work  of  his  own  hands. 

At  a  very  early  age,  indeed  soon  after  he  was  taken  from 
school,  Henry  was  ambitious  of  being  admitted  a  member  of  a 
Literary  Society  then  existing  in  Nottingham,  but  was  objected 
to  on  account  of  Iris  youth :  after  repeated  attempts,  and  re- 
peated failures,  he  succeeded  in  his  wish,  through  the  exertions 
of  some  of  his  friends,  and  was  elected.  In  a  very  short  time, 
to  the  great  surprise  of  the  Society,  he  proposed  to  give  them 
a  lecture,  and  they,  probably  from  curiosity,  acceded  to  the 
proposal.  The  next  evening  they  assembled :  he  lectured  upon 
Genius,  and  spoke  extempore  for  above  two  hours,  in  such  a 
manner,  that  he  received  the  unanimous  thanks  of  the  Society, 
and  they  elected  this  young  Roscius  of  oratory  their  Professor 
of  Literature.  There  are  certain  courts  at  Nottingham,  in 
which  it  is  necessary  for  an  attorney  to  plead ;  and  he  wished 
to  qualify  himself  for  an  eloquent  speaker,  as  well  as  a  sound 
lawyer. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


9 


With  the  profession  in  which  he  was  placed,  he  was  well 
pleased,  and  suffered  no  pursuit,  numerous  as  his  pursuits 
were,  to  interfere  in  the  slightest  degree  with  its  duties.  Yet 
he  soon  began  to  have  higher  aspirations,  and  to  cast  a  wistful 
eye  toward  the  universities  with  little  hope  of  ever  attaining 
their  important  advantages,  yet  probably  not  without  some 
hope,  however  faint.  There  was  at  this  time  a  magazine  in 
publication,  called  the  Monthly  Preceptor,  which  proposed 
prize  themes  for  boys  and  girls  to  write  upon ;  and  which  was 
encouraged  by  many  schoolmasters,  some  of  whom,  for  their 
own  credit,  and  that  of  the  important  institutions  in  which 
they  were  placed,  should  have  known  better  than  to  encourage 
it.  But  in  schools,  and  in  all  practical  systems  of  education, 
emulation  is  made  the  mainspring,  as  if  there  were  not  enough 
of  the  leaven  of  disquietude  in  our  natures,  without  inoculat- 
ing it  with  this  dilutement — this  vaccine-virus  of  envy.  True 
it  is,  that  we  need  encouragement  in  youth ;  that  though  our 
vices  spring  up  and  thrive  in  shade  and  darkness,  like  poison- 
ous fungi,  our  better  powers  require  light  and  air ;  and  that 
praise  is  the  sunshine,  without  which  genius  will  wither,  fade, 
and  die  ;  or  rather  in  search  of  which,  like  a  plant  that  is  de- 
barred from  it,  will  push  forth  in  contortions  and  deformity. 
But  such  practices  as  that  of  writing  for  public  prizes,  of  pub- 
licly declaiming,  and  of  enacting  plays  before  the  neighbouring 
gentry,  teach  boys  to  look  for  applause  instead  of  being  satisfied 
with  approbation,  and  foster  in  them  that  vanity  which  needs 
no  such  cherishing.  This  is  administering  stimulants  to  the 
heart,  instead  of  "  feeding  it  with  food  convenient  for  it ;"  and 
the  effect  of  such  stimulants  is  to  dwarf  the  human  mind,  as 
lapdogs  are  said  to  be  stopped  in  their  growth  by  being  dosed 
with  gin.  Thus  forced,  it  becomes  like  the  sapling  which 
shoots  up  when  it  should  be  striking  its  roots  far  and  deep, 
and  which  therefore  never  attains  to  more  than  a  sapling's  size. 

To  Henry,  however,  the  opportunity  of  distinguishing  him- 
self, even  in  the  Juvenile  Library,  was  useful :  if  he  had  acted 
with  a  man's  foresight,  he  could  not  have  done  more  wisely 
than  by  aiming  at  every  distinction  within  his  little  sphere. 
At  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  gained  a  silver  medal  for  a  translation 


10 


TJFE  OP 


from  Horace;  and  the  following  year  a  pair  of  twelve  inch 
globes,  for  an  imaginary  Tour  from  London  to  Edinburgh. 
He  determined  upon  trying  for  this  prize  one  evening  when  at 
tea  with  his  family,  and  at  supper  he  read  to  them  his  per- 
formance, to  which  seven  pages  were  granted  in  the  magazine, 
though  they  had  limited  the  allowance  of  room  to  three. 
Shortly  afterwards  he  won  several  books  for  exercises  on 
-different  subjects.  Such  honours  were  of  great  importance  to 
him ;  they  were  testimonies  of  his  ability,  which  could  not  be 
suspected  of  partiality,  and  they  prepared  his  father  to  regard 
with  less  reluctance  that  change  in  Ins  views  and  wishes  which 
afterwards  took  place. 

He  now  became  a  correspondent  in  the  Monthly  Mirror,  a 
magazine  which  first  set  the  example  of  typographical  neatness 
in  periodical  publications,  which  has  given  the  world  a  good 
series  of  portraits,  and  which  deserves  praise  also  on  other 
accounts,  having  among  its  contributors  some  persons  ot 
extensive  erudition  and  acknowledged  talents.  Magazines 
are  of  great  service  to  those  who  are  learning  to  write ;  they 
are  fishing-boats,  which  the  buccaneers  of  literature  do  not 
condescend  to  sink,  burn,  and  destroy :  young  poets  may  safely 
try  their  strength  in  them;  and  that  they  should  try  their 
strength  before  the  public,  without  danger  of  any  shame  from 
failure,  is  highly  desirable.  Henry's  rapid  improvement  was 
now  as  remarkable  as  his  unwearied  industry.  The  pieces 
which  had  been  rewarded  in  the  Juvenile  Preceptor,  might 
have  been  rivalled  by  many  boys ;  but  what  he  produced  a 
year  afterwards,  few  men  could  equal.  Those  which  appeared 
in  the  Monthly  Mirror  attracted  some  notice,  and  introduced 
him  to  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Capel  Lofft,  and  of  Mr.  Hill, 
the  proprietor  of  the  work,  a  gentleman  who  is  himself  a  lover 
of  English  literature,  and  who  has  probably  the  most  copious 
collection  of  English  poetry  in  existence.  Their  encourage- 
ment induced  him,  about  the  close  of  the  year  1802,  to  prepare 
a  little  volume  of  poems  for  the  press.  It  was  his  hope  that 
this  publication  might,  either  by  the  success  of  its  sale,  or  the 
notice  which  it  might  excite,  enable  him  to  prosecute  his 
studies  at  college,  and  fit  himself  for  the  Church.   Eor  though 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


11 


so  far  was  he  from  feeling  any  dislike  to  his  own*  profession, 
that  he  was  even  attached  to  it,  and  had  indulged  a  hope  that 
one  day  or  other  he  should  make  hi»  way  to  the  bar,  a  deaf- 
ness, to  which  he  had  always  been  subject,  and  which  appeared 
to  grow  progressively  worse,  threatened  to  preclude  all  possi- 
bility of  advancement;  and  his  opinions,  which  had  at  one 
time  inclined  to  deism,  had  now  taken  a  strong  devotional  bias. 

Henry  was  earnestly  advised  to  obtain,  if  possible,  some 
patroness  for  his  book,  whose  rank  in  life,  and  notoriety  in.  the 
literary  world,  might  afford  it  some  protection.  The  days  of 
dedications  are  happily  well  nigh  at  an  end ;  but  this  was  of 
importance  to  him,  as  giving  his  little  volume  consequence  in 
the  eyes  of  his  friends  and  townsmen.  The  Countess  of  Derby 
was  first  applied  to,  and  the  manuscript  submitted  to  her 
perusal.  She  returned  it  with  a  refusal,  upon  the  ground  that 
it  was  an  invariable  rule  with  her  never  to  accept  a  compli- 
ment of  the  kind;  but  this  refusal  was  couched  in  language 
as  kind  as  it  was  complimentary,  and  he  felt  more  pleasure  at 
the  kindness  which  it  expressed,  than  disappointment  at  the 
failure  of  his  application  :  a  two  pound  note  was  inclosed  as 
her  subscription  to  the  work.  The  Margravine  of  Anspach 
was  also  thought  of.  There  is  amongst  his  papers  the  draught 
of  a  letter  addressed  to  her  upon  the  subject,  but  I  believe  it 
was  never  sent.  He  was  then  recommended  to  apply  to  the 
Duchess  of  Devonshire.  Poor  Henry  felt  a  fit  repugnance  at 
courting  patronage  in  this  way,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  of  con- 
sequence in  his  little  world,  and  submitted ;  and  the  manuscript 
was  left,  with  a  letter,  at  Devonshire  House,  as  it  had  been 
with  the  Countess  of  Derby.  Some  time  elapsed,  and  no 
answer  arrived  from  her  Grace ;  and  as  she  was  known  to  be 
pestered  with  such  applications,  apprehensions  began  to  be 
entertained  for  the  safety  of  the  papers.  His  brother  Neville 
(who  was  now  settled  in  London)  called  several  times ;  of 
course  he  never  obtained  an  interview :  the  case  at  last  be- 
came desperate,  and  he  went  with  a  determination  not  to  quit 
the  house  till  he  had  obtained  them.  After  waiting  four  hours 
in  the  servants'  hall,  his  perseverance  conquered  their  idle 
insolence,  and  he  got  possession  of  the  manuscriprt.    And  here 


12 


LIFE  OF 


lie,  as  well  as  his  brother,  sick  of  c<  dancing  attendance"  upon 
the  great,  would  have  relinquished,  all  thoughts  of  the  dedica- 
tion ;  but  they  were  urgetf  to  make  one  more  trial : — a  letter 
to  her  Grace  was  procured,  with  which  Neville  obtained  au- 
dience, wisely  leaving  the  manuscript  at  home;  and  the 
Duchess,  with  her  usual  good  nature,  gave  permission  that  the 
volume  should  be  dedicated  to  her.  Accordingly  her  name 
appeared  in  the  title  page,  and  a  copy  was  transmitted  to  her 
in  due  form,  and  in  its  due  morocco  livery,  of  which  no  notice 
was  ever  taken.  Involved  as  she  was  in  an  endless  round  of 
miserable  follies,  it  is  probable  that  she  never  opened  the  book ; 
otherwise  her  heart  was  good  enough  to  have  felt  a  pleasure 
in  encouraging  the  author.  Oh,  what  a  lesson  would  the 
history  of  that  heart  hold  out ! 

Henry  sent  his  little  volume  to  each  of  the  then  existing 
Reviews,  and  accompanied  it  with  a  letter,  wherein  he  stated 
what  his  advantages  had  been,  and  what  were  the  hopes  which 
he  proposed  to  himself  from  the  publication :  requesting  from 
them  that  indulgence  of  which  his  productions  did  not  stand 
in  need,  and  which  it  might  have  been  thought,  under  such 
circumstances,  would  not  have  been  withheld  from  works  of 
less  promise.  It  may  be  well  conceived  with  what  anxiety  he 
looked  for  their  opinions,  and  with  what  feelings  he  read  the 
following  article  in  the  Monthly  lie  view  for  February,  1804 : — 

"  The  circumstances  under  which  this  little  volume  is  offered 
to  the  public,  must,  in  some  measure,  disarm  criticism.  We 
have  been  informed,  that  Mr.  T/hite  has  scarcely  attained  his 
eighteenth  year,  has  hitherto  exerted  himself  in  the  pursuit  ot 
knowledge  under  the  discouragements  of  penury  and  misfortune/ 
and  now  hopes,  by  this  early  authorship,  to  obtain  some  assist- 
ance in  the  prosecution  of  his  studies  at  Cambridge.  He 
appears,  indeed,  to  be  one  of  those  young  men  of  talents  and 
application  who  merit  encouragement ;  and  it  would  be  grati- 
fying to  us,  to  hear  that  this  publication  had  obtained  for  him 
a  respectable  patron,  for  we  fear  that  the  mere  profit  arising 
from  the  sale  camiot  be,  in  any  measure,  adequate  to  his  exi- 
gencies as  a  student  at  the  university.    A  subscription,  with 


HENRY  K1RKE  WHITE. 


13 


a  statement  of  the  particulars  of  the  author's  case,  might  have 
been  calculated  to  have  answered  his  purpose ;  but,  as  a  book 
which  is  to  'win  its  way'  on  the  sole  ground  of  its  own 
merit,  this  poem  cannot  be  contemplated  with  any  sanguine 
expectation.  The  author  is  very  anxious,  however,  that  critics 
should  find  in  it  something  to  commend,  and  he  shall  not  be 
disappointed:  we  commend  his  exertions,  and  his  laudable 
endeavours  to  excel;  but  we  cannot  compliment  him  with 
having  learned  the  difficult  art  of  writing  good  poetry. 
"  Such  lines  as  these  will  sufficiently  prove  our  assertion : 

'* 1  Here  would  1  run,  a  visionary  Boy, 

When  the  hoarse  thunder  shook  the  vaulted  Sky, 
And,  fancy  led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
Sternly  careering  in  the  eddying  storm.' 

"If  Mr.  White  should  be  instructed  by  Alma-mater,  he  will, 
doubtless,  produce  better  sense  and  better  rhymes." 

I  know  not  who  was  the  writer  of  this  precious  article.  It 
is  certain  that  Henry  could  have  no  personal  enemy;  his 
volume  fell  into  the  hands  of  some  dull  man,  who  took  it  up 
in  an  hour  of  ill-humour,  turned  over  the  leaves  to  look  for 
faults,  and  finding  that  Boy  and  Sky  were  not  orthodox 
rhymes,  according  to  his  wise  creed  of  criticism,  sate  down  to 
blast  the  hopes  of  a  boy,  who  had  confessed  to  him  all  his 
hopes  and  all  his  difficulties,  and  thrown  himself  upon  his 
mercy.  With  such  a  letter  before  him,  (by  mere  accident  I 
saw  that  which  had  been  sent  to  the  Critical  Review,)  even 
though  the  poems  had  been  bad,  a  good  man  would  not  have 
said  so ;  he  would  have  avoided  censure,  if  he  had  found  it 
impossible  to  bestow  praise.  But  that  the  reader  may  perceive 
the  wicked  injustice,  as  well  as  the  cruelty  of  this  reviewal,  a 
few  specimens  of  the  volume,  thus  contemptuously  condemned 
because  Boy  and  Sky  are  used  as  rhymes  in  it,  shall  be  in- 
serted in  this  place. 


14 


LIFE  OF 


TO  THE  HERB  ROSEMARY.* 
I. 

Sweet  scented  flower !  who  art  wont  to  bloom 

On  January's  front  severe, 

And  o'er  the  winterj  desert  drear 
To  waft  thy  waste  perfume ! 
Come,  thou  shalt  form  my  nosegay  now, 
And  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow ; 

And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  wreath, 
I'll  weave  a  melancholy  song, 
And  sweet  the  strain  shall  be  and  long, 

The  melody  of  death. 

II. 

Come,  funeral  flow'r !  who  lov'st  to  dwell 

With  the  pale  corse  in  lonely  tomb, 

And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 
A  sweet  decaying  smell. 
Come,  press  my  lips,  and  lie  with  me 
Beneath  the  lowly  Alder  tree, 

And  we  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 
And  not  a  care  shall  dare  intrude, 
To  break  the  marble  solitude, 

So  peaceful,  and  so  deep. 

in. 

And  hark !  the  wind-god,  as  he  flies, 

Moans  hollow  in  the  forest-trees, 

And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze, 
Mysterious  music  dies. 
Sweet  flower !  that  requiem  wild  is  mine, 
It  ^rafns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine, 
The  cold  turf  altar  of  the  dead; 

My  grave  shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot, 

Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 
A  dying  fragrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my  ashes  shed. 

*  The  Rosemary  buds  in  January.  It  is  the  flower  commonly 
put  in  the  coffins  of  the  dead* 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


TO  THE  MORNING. 

WRITTEN    DURING  ILLNESS 

Beams  of  the  daybreak  faint !  I  hail 
Your  dubious  hues,  as  on  the  robe 
Of  night,  which  wraps  the  slumbering  globe, 

I  mark  your  traces  pale. 
Tir'd  with  the  taper's  sickly  light, 
And  with  the  wearying,  numbered  night, 
I  hail  the  streaks  of  morn  divine : 
And  lo !  they  break  between  the  dewy  wreathes 

That  round  my  rural  casement  twine ; 
The  fresh  gale  o'er  the  green  lawn  breathes, 
It  fans  my  feverish  brow, — it  calms  the  mental  strife, 
And  cheerily  re-illumes  the  lambent  flame  of  life. 

The  Lark  has  her  gay  song  begun, 

She  leaves  her  grassy  nest, 
And  soars  till  the  unrisen  sun 

Gleams  on  her  speckled  breast. 
Now  let  me  leave  my  restless  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spangled  uplands  tread ; 

Now  through  the  custom5  d  wood-walk  wend 
By  many  a  green  lane  lies  my  way, 

Where  high  o'er  head  the  wild  briers  bend, 

Till  on  the  mountain's  summit  grey, 
I  sit  me  down,  and  mark  the  glorious  dawn  of  day.. 

Oh,  Heaven !  the  soft  refreshing  gale 

It  breathes  into  my  breast, 
My  sunk  eye  gleams,  my  cheek  so  pale, 

Is  with  new  colours  drest. 
Blithe  Health !  thou  soul  of  life  and  ease ! 
Come  thou  too,  on  the  balmy  breeze, 

Invigorate  my  frame : 
I'll  join  with  thee  the  buskin'd  .chasej 
With  thee  the  distant  clime  will  trace, 
Beyond  those  clouds  of  flam*, 


16 


LIFE  OP 


Above,  below,  what  charms  unfold 

In  all  the  varied  view ! 
Before  me  all  is  burnish' d  goid, 

Behind  the  twilight's  hue. 
The  mists  which  on  old  Night  await, 
Far  to  the  West  they  hold  their  state, 

They  shun  the  clear  blue  face  of  Morn; 

Along  the  fine  cerulean  sky 

The  fleecy  clouds  successive  fly, 
While  bright  prismatic  beams  their  shadowy  folds  ai/oni* 

And  hark  !  the  Thatcher  has  begun 

His  whistle  on  the  eaves, 
And  oft  the  Hedger's  bill  is  heard 

Among  the  rustling  leaves. 
The  slow  team  creaks  upon  the  road, 

The  noisy  whip  resounds, 
The  driver's  voice,  his  carol  blithe, 
The  mower's  stroke,  his  whetting  scythe. 

Mix  with  the  morning's  sounds. 

Who  would  not  rather  take  his  seat 

Beneath  these  clumps  of  trees, 
The  early  dawn  of  day  to  greet, 

And  catch  the  healthy  breeze, 
Than  on  the  silken  couch  of  Sloth 

Luxurious  to  lie ; 
Who  would  not  from  life's  dreary  waste 
Snatch,  when  he  could,  with  eager  haste, 

An  interval  of  joy  ! 

To  him  who  simply  thus  recounts 

The  morning's  pleasures  o'er. 
Pate  dooms,  ere  long,  the  scene  must  close 

To  ope  on  him  no  more. 
Yet,  Morning !  unrepining  still 

He'll  greet  thy  beams  awhile, 
And  surely  thou,  when  o'er  his  grave 


HENRY  KIKKE  WHITE. 


17 


Solemn  the  whisp'ring  willows  wave, 

Wilt  sweetly  on  him  smile ; 
And  the  pale  glow-worm's  pensive  light 
Will  guide  his  ghostly  walks  in  the  drear  moonless  night. 

An  author  is  proof  against  reviewing,  when,  like  myself,  he 
has  been  reviewed  above  seventy  times ;  but  the  opinion  of  a 
reviewer  upon  his  first  publication,  has  more  effect,  both  upon 
his  feelings  and  his  success,  than  it  ought  to  have,  or  would 
have,  if  the  mystery  of  the  ungentle  craft  were  more  generally 
understood.  Henry  wrote  to  the  editor,  to  complain  of  the 
cruelty  with  which  he  had  been  treated.  This  remonstrance 
produced  the  following  answer  in  the  next  month. 

Monthly  Review,  March,  1804. 
ADDRESS  TO  CORRESPONDENTS. 

(V  In  the  course  of  our  long  critical  labours,  we  have  neces- 
sarily been  forced  to  encounter  the  resentment,  or  withstand 
the  lamentations  of  many  disappointed  authors :  but  we  have 
seldom,  if  ever,  been  more  affected  than  by  a  letter  from  Mr. 
White,  of  Nottingham,  complaining  of  the  tendency  of  our 
strictures  on  his  poem  of  Clifton  Grove,  in  our  last  number. 
His  expostulations  are  written  with  a  warmth  of  feeling  in  which 
we  truly  sympathize,  and  which  shall  readily  excuse,  witli  us, 
some  expressions  of  irritation :  but  Mr.  White  must  receive 
our  most  serious  declaration,  that  we  did  'judge  of  the  book 
by  the  book  itself excepting  only,  that  from  his  former  letter, 
we  were  desirous  of  mitigating  the  pain  of  that  decision  which 
our  public  duty  required  us  to  pronounce.  We  spoke  with  thi. 
utmost  sincerity,  when  we  stated  our  wishes  for  patronage  to 
an  unfriended  man  of  talents,  for  talents  Mr.  White  certainly 
possesses,  and  we  repeat  those  wishes  with  equal  cordiality. 
Let  him  still  trust  that,  like  Mr.  Giffard,  (see  preface  to  his 
translation  of  Juvenal,)  some  Mr.  Cookesley  may  yet  appear,  to 
foster  a  capacity  which  endeavours  to  escape  from  its  present 
confined  sphere  of  action ;  and  let  the  opulent  inhabitants  of 
Nottingham  reflect,  that  some  portion  of  that  wealth  wliich 
they  have  worthily  acquired  by  the  habits  of  industry,  will  be 
laudably  applied  in  assisting  the  efforts  of  mind." 

o 


LIFE  OF 


Henry  was  not  aware  tnat  reviewers  are  infallible.  His 
letter  seems  to  have  been  answered  by  a  different  writer ;  the 
answer  has  none  of  the  common-plaee  and  vulgar  insolence  of 
the  criticism;  but  to  have  made  any  concession,  would  have 
been  admitting  that  a  review  can  do  wrong,  and  thus  violating 
the  fundamental  principle  of  its  constitution. 

The  poems  which  had  been  thus  condemned,  appeared  to  rne 
to  discover  strong  marks  of  genius.  I  had  shown  them  to  two 
of  my  friends,  than  whom  no  persons  living  better  understand 
what  poetry  is,  nor  have  given  better  proofs  of  it ;  and  their 
opinion  coincided  with  my  own.  I  was  fully  convinced  of  the 
injustice  of  this  criticism,  and  having  accidentally  seen  the 
letter  which  he  had  written  to  the  reviewers,  understood  the 
whole  cruelty  of  their  injustice.  In  consequence  of  this  I  wrote 
to  Henry,  to  encourage  him ;  told  him,  that  though  I  was  well 
aware  how  imprudent  it  was  in  young  poets  to  publish  their 
productions,  his  circumstances  seemed  to  render  that  expedient, 
from  which  it  would  otherwise  be  right  to  dissuade  him; 
advised  him  therefore,  if  he  had  no  better  prospects,  to  print  a 
larger  volume  by  subscription,  and  offered  to  do  what  little  was 
in  my  power  to  serve  him  in  the  business.  To  this  he  replied 
in  the  following  letter. 

*  *  *  * 
"  I  dare  not  say  all  I  feel  respecting  your  opinion  of  my 
little  volume.  The  extreme  acrimony  with  which  the  Monthly 
Review  (of  all  others  the  most  important)  treated  me,  threw  me 
into  a  state  of  stupefaction ;  I  regarded  all  that  had  passed  as 
a  dream,  and  thought  I  had  been  deluding  myself  into  an  idea 
•©f  possessing  poetic  genius,  when  in  fact  I  had  only  the  long- 
ing, without  the  afflatus.  I  mustered  resolution  enough, 
however,  to  write  spiritedly  to  them:  their  answer,  in  the 
ensuing  number,  was  a  tacit  acknowledgment  that  they  had 
been  somewhat  too  unsparing  in  their  correction.  It  was  a 
poor  attempt  to  salve  over  a  wound  wantonly  and  most  unge- 
nerously inflicted.  Still  I  was  damped,  because  I  knew  the 
work  was  very  respectable,  and  therefore  could  not,  I  con- 
cluded, give  a  criticism  grossly  deficient  in  equity — the  more 
especially,  as  I  knew  of  no  sort  of  inducement  to  extraordinary 
severity.  Your  letter,  however,  has  revived  me,  and  I  do  again 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


19 


venture  to  hope  that  I  may  still  produce  something  which  will 
survive  me. 

"  With  regard  to  your  advice  and  offers  of  assistance,  I  will 
not  attempt,  because  I  am  unable,  to  thank  you  for  them.  To 
morrow  morning  I  depart  for  Cambrfdge,  and  I  have  consi- 
derable hopes  that,  as  I  do  not  enter  into  the  University  with 
any  sinister  or  interested  views,  but  sincerely  desire  to  perform 
the  duties  of  an  affectionate  and  vigilant  pastor,  and  become 
more  useful  to  mankind,  I  therefore  have  hopes,  I  say,  that  J 
shall  find  means  of  support  in  the  University.  If  I  do  not,  I 
shall  certainly  act  in  purs  nance  of  your  recommendations ; 
and  shall,  without  hesitation,  avail  myself  of  your  offers  of  ser- 
vice, and  of  your  directions. 

"  In  a  short  time  this  will  be  determined ;  and  when  it  is,  I 
shall  take  the  liberty  ot  writing  to  you  at  Keswick,  to  make 
you  acquainted  with  the  result. 

"I  have  only  one  objection  to  publishing  by  subscription, 
and  I  confess  it  has  weight  with  me — It  is,  that  in  this  step,  I 
shall  seem  to  be  acting  upon  the  advice  so  unfeelingly  and  con- 
tumeliously  given  by  the  Monthly  Reviewers,  who  say  what  is 
equal  to  this — that  had  I  gotten  a  subscription  for  my  poems 
before  their  merit  was  known,  I  might  have  succeeded ;  pro- 
vided, it  seems,  I  had  made  &  particular  statement  of  my  case; 
like  a  beggar,  who  stands  with  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  a  full 
account  of  his  cruel  treatment  on  the  coast  of  Earbary  in  the 
other,  and  so  gives  you  his  penny  sheet  for  your  sixpence,  by 
way  of  half-purchase,  half-charity. 

"  I  have  materials  for  another  volume,  but  they  were  written 
principally  while  Clifton  Grove  was  in  the  press,  or  soon  after, 
and  do  not  now  at  all  satisfy  me.  Indeed,  of  late,  I  have  been 
Dbliged  to  desist,  almost  entirely,  from  converse  with  the  dames 
i>f  Helicon.  The  drudgery  of  an  attorney's  office,  and  the  ne- 
cessity of  preparing  myself,  in  case  I  should  succeed  in  getting 
to  college,  in  what  little  leisure  I  could  boast,  left  no  room  for 
the  nights  of  the  imagination." 

In  another  letter  he  speaks,  in  still  stronger  terms,  of  what 
'he  had  suffered  from  the  unfeeling  and  iniquitous  criticism. 
Q  2 


20 


LIFE  OP 


"The  unfavourable  review  (in  the  Monthly)  of  my  un- 
happy work,  has  cut  deeper  than  you  could  have  thought ;  not 
in  a  literary  point  of  view,  but  as  it  affects  my  respectability. 
It  represents  me  actually  as  a  beggar,  going  about  gathering 
money  to  put  myself  at  college,  when  my  book  is  worthless  ; 
and  this  with  every  appearance  of  candour.  They  have  been 
sadly  misinformed  respecting  me  :  this  review  goes  before  me 
wherever  I  turn  my  steps;  it  haunts  me  incessantly,  and  I  am 
persuaded  it  is  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Satan  to  drive 
me  to  distraction.    I  must  leave  Nottingham." 

It  is  not  unworthy  of  remark,  that  this  very  reviewal,  which 
was  designed  to  crush  the  hopes  of  Henry,  and  suppress  his 
struggling  genius,  has  been,  in  its  consequences,  the  main 
occasion  of  bringing  his  Remains  to  light,  and  obtaining  for 
him  that  fame  which  assuredly  will  be  his  portion.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  indignation  which  I  felt  at  perusing  a  criticism  at 
once  so  cruel  and  so  stupid,  the  little  intercourse  between 
Henry  and  myself  would  not  have  taken  place;  his  papers 
would  probably  have  remained  in  oblivion,  and  his  name,  in  a 
few  years,  have  been  forgotten. 

I  have  stated  that  his  opinions  were,  at  one  time,  inclining 
towards  deism :  it  needs  not  be  said  on  what  slight  grounds 
the  opinions  of  a  youth  must  needs  be  founded :  while  they 
are  confined  to  matters  of  speculation,  they  indicate,  whatever 
their  eccentricities,  only  an  active  mind ;  and  it  is  only  when  a 
propensity  is  manifested  to  such  principles  as  give  a  sanction 
to  immorality,  that  they  show  something  wrong  at  heart.  One 
little  poem  of  Henry's  remains,  which  was  written  in  this  un- 
settled state  of  mind.  It  exhibits  much  of  his  character,  and 
can  excite  no  feelings  towards  him,  but  such  as  are  favourable. 

MY  OWN  CHARACTER. 

ADDRESSED   (DURING  ILLNESS)  TO  A  LADY. 

Deae,  Eanny,  I  mean,  now  I'm  laid  on  the  shelf, 
To  give  you  a  sketch — ay,  a  sketch  of  myself. 
'Tis  a  pitiful  subject,  I  frankly  confess.. 
And  one  it  would  nuzzle  a  painter  to  dress ; 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


21 


But  however,  here  goes,  and  as  sure  as  a  gun, 

I'll  tell  all  my  faults  like  a  penitent  nun ; 

Tor  I  know,  for  my  Eanny,  before  I  address  her, 

She  wont  be  a  cynical  father  confessor. 

Come,  come,  'twiU  not  do  !  put  that  curling  brow  down ; 

You  can't,  for  the  soul  of  you,  learn  how  to  frow/i. 

Well,  first  I  premise,  it's  my  honest  conviction, 

That  my  breast  is  a  chaos  of  all  contradiction ; 

Religious — Deistic — now  loyal  and  warm  ; 

Then  a  dagger-drawn  Democrat  hot  for  reform ; 

This  moment  a  fop — that,  sententious  as  Titus; 

Democritus  now,  and  anon  Heraclitus ; 

Now  laughing  and  pleas' d,  like  a  child  with  a  rattle , 

Then  vexed  to  the  soul  with  impertinent  tattle ; 

Now  moody  and  sad,  now  unthinking  and  gay ; 

To  all  points  of  the  compass  I  veer  in  a  day. 

I'm  proud  and  disdainful  to  Fortune's  gay  child, 
But  to  Poverty's  offspring  submissive  and  mild ; 
As  rude  as  a  boor,  and  as  rough  in  dispute ; 
Then  as  for  politeness — oh !  dear — I'm  a  brute ! 
I  show  no  respect  where  I  never  can  feel  it ; 
And  as  for  contempt,  take  no  pains  to  conceal  it. 
And  so  in  the  suite,  by  these  laudable  ends, 
I've  a  great  many  foes,  and  a  very  few  friends. 

And  yet,  my  dear  Eanny,  there  are  who  can  feel, 
That  this  proud  heart  of  mine  is  not  fashioned  of  steeh 
It  can  love,  (can  it  not  ?) — it  can  hate,  I  am  sure ; 
And  it's  friendly  enough,  though  in  friends  it  be  poor. 
Por  itself  though  it  bleed  not,  for  others  it  bleeds  ; 
If  it  have  not  ripe  virtues,  I'm  sure  it's  the  needs  ; 
And  though  far  from  faultless,  or  even  so-so, 
I  think  it  may  pass  as  our  worldly  things  go. 

Well,  I've  told  you  my  frailties  without  any  gloss  ; 

Then  as  to  my  virtues,  I'm  quite  at  a  loss  ! 

I  think  I'm  devout,  and  yet  I  can't  say, 

But  in  process  of  time  I  may  get  the  wrong  way. 


22 


LIFE  OF 


I'm  a  general  lover,  if  that's  commendation, 

And  yet  can't  withstand  you  Jcnoiv  whose  fascination. 

But  I  find  that  amidst  all  my  tricks  and  devices, 

In  fishing  for  virtues,  I'm  pulling  up  vices ; 

So  as  for  the  good,  why,  if  I  possess  it, 

I  am  not  yet  learned  enough  to  express  it. 

You  yourself  must  examine  the  lovelier  side, 
And  after  your  every  art  you  have  tried, 
Whatever  my  faults,  I  may  venture  to  say, 
Hypocrisy  never  will  come  in  your  way. 
I  am  upright,  I  hope ;  I  am  downright,  I'm  clear  I 
And  I  think  my  worst  foe  must  allow  I'm  sincere ; 
And  if  ever  sincerity  glow'd  in  my  breast, 
'Tis  now  when  I  swear  *  * 


About  this  time  Mr.  Pigott,  the  curate  of  St.  Mary's,  Not- 
tingham, hearing  what  was  the  bent  of  his  religious  opinions, 
sent  him,  by  a  friend,  Scott's  "  Force  of  Truth,"  and  requested 
him  to  peruse  it  attentively,  which  he  promised  to  do.  Having, 
looked  at  the  book,  he  told  the  person  who  brought  it  to  him, 
that  he  could  soon  write  an  answer  to  it ;  but  about  a  fortnight 
afterwards,  when  this  friend  inquired  how  far  he  had  proceeded 
in  his  answer  to  Mr.  Scott,  Henry's  reply  was  in  a  very 
different  tone  and  temper.  He  said,  that  to  answer  that  book 
was  out  of  his  power,  and  out  of  any  man's,  for  it  was  founded 
upon  eternal  truth ;  that  it  had  convinced  him  of  his  error ; 
and  that  so  thoroughly  was  he  impressed  with  a  sense  of  the 
importance  of  his  Maker's  favour,  that  he  would  willingly  give 
up  all  acquisitions  of  knowledge,  and  all  hopes  of  fame,  and 
live  in  a  wilderness,  unknown,  till  death,  so  he  could  insure  an 
inheritance  in  heaven. 

A  new  pursuit  was  thus  opened  to  him,  and  he  engaged  in 
it  with  his  wonted  ardour.  "  It  was  a  constant  feature  in  Ins 
mind,"  says  Mr.  Pigott,  "  to  persevere  in  the  pursuit  of  what 
he  deemed  noble  and  important.  Religion,  in  which  he  now 
appeared  to  liimself  not  yet  to  have  taken  a  step,  engaged  all 
his  anxiety,  as  of  all  concerns  the  most  important.  He  could 
not  rest  satisfied  till  he  had  formed  his  principles  upon  the 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


23 


basis  of  Christianity,  and  till  lie  had  begun  in  earnest  to  think 
and  act  agreeably  to  its  pure  and  heavenly  precepts.  His  mind 
loved  to  make  distant  excursions  into  the  future  and  remote 
consequences  of  tilings.  He  no  longer  limited  his  views  to  the 
narrow  confines  of  earthly  existence ;  he  was  not  happy  till  he 
had  learnt  to  rest  and  expatiate  in  a  world  to  come.  What  he 
said  to  me  when  we  became  intimate  is  worthy  of  observation : 
that,  he  said,  which  first  made  him  dissatisfied  with  the  creed 
he  had  adopted,  and  the  standard  of  practice  winch  he  had  set 
up  for  himself,  was  the  purity  of  mind  which  he  perceived 
was  everywhere  inculcated  in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  re- 
quired of  every  one  who  would  become  a  successful  candidate 
for  future  blessedness.  He  had  supposed  that  morality  of 
conduct  was  all  the  purity  required;  but  when  he  observed 
that  purity  of  the  very  thoughts  and  intentions  of  the  soul 
also  was  requisite,  he  was  convinced  of  his  deficiencies,  and 
could  find  no  comfort  to  his  penitence,  but  in  the  atonement 
made  for  human  frailty  by  the  Redeemer  of  mankind ;  and  no 
strength  adequate  to  his  weakness,  and  sufficient  for  resisting 
evil,  but  the  aid  of  God's  Spirit,  promised  to  those  who  seek 
him  from  above  in  the  sincerity  of  earnest  prayer." 

Erom  the  moment  when  he  had  fully  contracted  these  opi- 
nions, he  was  resolved  upon  devoting  liis  life  to  the  promulga- 
tion of  them ;  and  therefore  to  leave  the  law,  and,  if  possible, 
place  himself  at  one  of  the  Universities.  Every  argument  was 
used  by  his  friends  to  dissuade  him  from  Ins  purpose,  but  to 
no  effect :  his  mind  was  unalterably  fixed;  and  great  and 
numerous  as  the  obstacles  were,  he  was  determined  to  sur- 
mount them  all.  He  had  now  served  the  better  half  of  the 
term  for  which  he  was  articled ;  his  entrance  and  continuance 
in  the  profession  had  been  a  great  expense  to  his  family ;  and 
to  give  up  this  lucrative  profession,  in  the  study  of  which  he 
had  advanced  so  far,  and  situated  as  he  was,  for  one  wherein 
there  was  so  little  prospect  of  his  obtaining  even  a  decent  com- 
petency, appeared  to  them  the  height  of  folly  or  of  madness. 
This  determination  cost  his  poor  mother  many  tears ;  but 
determined  he  was,  and  that  by  the  best  and  purest  motives. 
Without  ambition  he  could  not  have  existed,  but  his  ambition 
now  was  to  be  eminently  useful  in  the  ministry. 


24 


LIFE  OF 


It  was  Henry's  fortune,  through  his  short  life,  as  he  was 
worthy  of  the  kindest  treatment,  always  to  find  it.  His  em- 
ployers, Mr.  Coldham  and  Mr.  Enfield,  listened  with  a  friendly 
ear  to  his  plans,  and  agreed  to  give  up  the  remainder  of  his 
time,  though  it  was  now  become  very  valuable  to  them,  as  soon 
is  they  should  think  his  prospects  of  getting  through  the  Uni- 
versity were  such  as  he  might  reasonably  trust  to ;  but  till 
then,  they  felt  themselves  bound,  for  his  own  sake,  to  detain 
him.  Mr.  Pigott,  and  Mr.  Dashwood,  another  clergyman,  who 
at  that  time  resided  in  Nottingham,  exerted  themselves  in  his 
favour :  he  had  a  friend  at  Queen's  College,  Cambridge,  who 
mentioned  him  to  one  of  the  Fellows  of  St.  John's,  and  that 
gentleman,  on  the  representations  made  to  him  of  Henry's 
talents  and  piety,  spared  no  effort  to  obtain  for  him  an  adequate 
support. 

As  soon  as  these  hopes  were  laid  out  to  him,  his  employers 
gave  him  a  month's  leave  of  absence,  for  the  benefit  of  unin- 
terrupted study,  and  of  change  of  air,  which  his  health  now 
began  to  require.  Instead  of  going  to  the  sea-coast,  as  was 
expected,  he  chose  for  his  retreat  the  village  of  Wilford,  which 
is  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Trent,  and  at  the  foot  of  Clifton 
Woods.  These  woods  had  ever  been  his  favourite  place  of 
resort,  and  were  the  subject  of  the  longest  poem  in  his  little 
volume,  from  which,  indeed,  the  volume  was  named.  He 
delighted  to  point  out  to  his  more  intimate  friends  the  scenery 
of  tins  poem ;  the  islet  to  which  he  had  often  forded  when  the 
river  was  not  knee  deep ;  and  the  little  hut  wherein  he  had 
sate  for  hours,  and  sometimes  all  day  long,  reading  or  writing, 
or  dreaming  with  his  eyes  open.  He  had  sometimes  wandered 
in  these  woods  till  night  far  advanced,  and  used  to  speak  with 
pleasure  of  having  once  been  overtaken  there  by  a  thunder 
storm  at  midnight,  and  watching  the  lightning  over  the  rivei 
and  the  vale  towards  the  town. 

In  this  village  his  mother  procured  lodgings  for  him,  and  his 
place  of  retreat  was  kept  secret,  except  from  his  nearest  friends. 
Soon  after  the  expiration  of  the  month,  intelligence  arrived  that 
the  plans  which  had  been  formed  in  his  behalf  had  entirely 
failed.    He  went  immediately  to  his  mother :  "All  my  hopes," 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


25 


said  he,  "of  getting  to  the  University  are  now  blasted;  in 
preparing  myself  for  it,  I  have  lost  time  in  nrj  profession ;  I 
have  mnch  ground  to  get  up,  and  as  I  am  determined  not  to  be 
a  mediocre  attorney,  I  must  endeavour  to  recover  what  I  have 
lost."  The  consequence  was,  that  he  applied  himself  more 
severely  than  ever  to  his  studies.  He  now  allowed  himself  no 
time  for  relaxation,  little  for  his  meals,  and  scarcely  any  for 
sleep.  He  would  read  till  one,  two,  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  then  throw  himself  on  the  bed,  and  rise  again  to  his  work 
at  five,  at  the  call  of  a  larum,  which  he  had  fixed  to  a  Dutch 
clock  in  his  chamber.  Many  nights  he  never  laid  down  at  all. 
It  was  in  vain  that  Iris  mother  used  every  possible  means  to 
dissuade  him  from  this  destructive  application.  In  this  respect, 
and  in  this  only  one,  was  Henry  undutiful,  and  neither  com- 
mands, nor  tears,  nor  entreaties,  could  check  his  desperate  and 
deadly  ardour.  At  one  time  she  went  every  night  into  his 
room,  to  put  out  his  candle :  as  soon  as  he  heard  her  coming 
up  stairs,  he  used  to  hide  it  in  a  cupboard,  throw  himself  into 
bed,  and  affect  sleep  while  she  was  in  the  room ;  then, when  all 
was  quiet,  rise  again,  and  pursue  his  baneful  studies. 

"The  night,"  says  Henry,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "has  been 
everything  to  me ;  and  did  the  world  know  how  I  have  been 
indebted  to  the  hours  of  repose,  they  would  not  wonder  that 
night  images  are,  as  they  judge,  so  ridiculously  predominant  in 
my  verses."  During  some  of  these  midnight  hours  he  indulged 
himself  in  complaining,  but  in  such  complaints  that  it  is  to  be 
wished  more  of  them  had  been  found  among  his  papers. 

ODE  ON  DISAPPOINTMENT. 
I. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Not  in  thy  terrors  clad ; 
Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise; 
Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 
The  restless  and  the  bad. 
But  I  recline 
Beneath  thy  shrine, 
And  round  my  brow  resign' d.  thy  peaceful  cypress  twine. 


26 


LIFE  OP 


II. 

Though  Eancy  flies  away 

Before  thy  hollow  tread, 
Yet  Meditation  in  her  cell, 
Hears  with  faint  eye,  the  ling'ring  knell, 
That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead ; 
And  though  the  tear 
By  chance  appear, 
Sfet  she  can  smile,  and  say,  My  all  was  not  laid  here* 

in. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Though  from  Hope's  summit  hurl'd, 
Still,  rigid  Nurse,  thou  art  forgiven, 
Tor  thou  severe  wert  sent  from  heaven 
To  wean  me  from  the  world ; 
To  turn  my  eye 
From  vanity, 
And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that  never,  never  die. 

IV. 

What  is  this  passing  scene  ? 

A  peevish  April  day  ! 
A  little  sun— a  little  rain, 
And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain, 
And  all  things  fade  away. 
Man  (soon  discuss' d) 
Yields  up  his  trust, 
And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with  him  in  the  dust,. 

v. 

Oh,  what  ib  beauty's  power  ? 

It  flourishes  and  dies ; 
Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break, 
To  tell  how  soft,  how  smooth  a  cheek 
Beneath  its  surface  lies  ? 
Mute,  mute  is  all 
O'er  beauty's  fall ; 
Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when  mantled  in  her  paiL 


HENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 


2T 


VI. 

The  most  belov'd  on  earth 

Not  long  survives  to-day; 
So  music  past  is  obsolete, 
And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing  sweet, 
But  now  'tis  gone  away. 
Thus  does  the  shade 
In  memory  fade, 
When  in  forsaken  tomb  the  form  belov'd  is  laid. 

VII. 

Then  since  this  world  is  vain, 

And  volatile  and  fleet, 
Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
Where  rust  corrupts,  and  moth  destroys, 
And  cares  and  sorrows  eat  ? 
Why  fly  from  ill 
With  anxious  skill, 
When  soon  this  hand  will  freeze,  this  throbbing  heart  be  still  £ 

VIII. 

Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 

Thou  art  not  stern  to  me ; 
Sad  Monitress !  I  own  thy  sway, 
A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
Erom  sun  to  sun 
My  race  will  run, 
I  only  bow,  and  say,  My  God,  thy  will  be  done. 

On  another  paper  are  a  few  lines,  written  probably  in  th@ 
freshness  of  his  disappointment. 

I  dream  no  more — the  vision  flies  away, 
And  Disappointment    *      *  * 
There  fell  my  hopes— I  lost  my  all  in  this, 
My  cherish'd  all  of  visionary  bliss. 
Now  hope  farewell,  farewell  all  joys  below; 
Now  welcome  sorrow,  and  now  welcome  woe-. 
Plunge  me  in  glooms    *      *  * 


28 


LIFE  OP 


His  health  soon  sunk  under  these  hahits ;  he  became  pale 
and  thin,  and  at  length  had  a  sharp  fit  of  sickness.  On  his 
recovery,  he  wrote  the  following  lines  in  the  churchyard  of  his 
favourite  village. 

LINES  ON  RECOVERY  FROM  SICKNESS 

WRITTEN  IN  WILFORD  CHURCH -YARD. 

Here  would  I  wish  to  sleep. — This  is  the  spot 
Which  I  have  long  mark'd  out  to  lay  my  bones  in  ; 
Tired  out  and  wearied  with  the  riotous  world, 
Beneath  this  yew  I  would  be  sepulchred. 
It  is  a  lovely  spot !  the  sultry  sun, 
From  his  meridian  height,  endeavours  vainly 
To  pierce  the  shadowy  foliage,  while  the  zephyr 
Comes  wafting  gently  o'er  the  rippling  Trent, 
And  plays  about  my  wan  cheek.    'Tis  a  nook 
Most  pleasant. — Such  a  one  perchance  did  Gray 
Frequent,  as  with  the  vagrant  muse  he  wanton' d. 
Come,  I  will  sit  me  down  and  meditate, 
For  I  am  wearied  with  my  summer's  walk ; 
And  here  I  may  repose  in  silent  ease ; 
And  thus,  perchance,  when  life's  sad  journey's  o'er, 
My  harass'd  soul,  in  this  same  spot,  may  find 
The  haven  of  its  rest — beneath  this  sod 
Perchance  may  sleep  it  sweetly,  sound  as  death. 

I  wrould  not  have  my  corpse  cemented  down 

With  brick  and  stone,  defrauding  the  poor  earthworm 

Of  its  predestined  dues ;  no,  I  would  lie 

Beneath  a  little  hillock,  grass  o'ergrown, 

Swath' d  down  with  oziers,  just  as  sleep  the  cotters. 

Yet  may  not  undistinguish' d  be  my  grave ; 

But  there  at  eve  may  some  congenial  soul 

Duly  resort,  and  shed  a  pious  tear, 

The  good  man's  benison — no  more  I  ask. 

And  oh !  (if  heavenly  beings  may  look  down 

From  where,  with  cherubim  inspired,  they  sit, 

Upon  this  little  dim-discover' d  spot, 

The  earth,)  then  will  I  cast  a  glance  below 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


On  him  who  thus  my  ashes  shaii  e-iubalm ; 
And  I  will  weep  too,  and  will  blt^s  the  wanderer, 
Wishing  he  may  not  long  be  doom'd  to  pine- 
In  this  low-thoughted  world  of  darkling  woe, 
But  that,  ere  long,  he  reach  his  kindred  skies. 

Yet  'twas  a  silly  thought — as  if  the  body, 

Mouldering  beneath  the  surface  of  the  earth, 

Could  taste  the  sweets  of  summer  scenery, 

And  feel  the  freshness  of  the  balmy  breeze  ! 

Yet  nature  speaks  within  the  human  bosom, 

And,  spite  of  reason,  bids  it  look  beyond 

His  narrow  verge  of  being,  and  provide 

A  decent  residence  for  its  clayey  shell, 

Endear' d  to  it  by  time.    And  who  would  lay 

His  body  in  the  city  burial-place, 

To  be  thrown  up  again  by  some  rude  sexton, 

And  yield  its  narrow  house  another  tenant, 

Ere  the  moist  flesh  had  mingled  with  the  dust, 

Ere  the  tenacious  hair  had  left  the  scalp, 

Exposed  to  insult  lewd,  and  wantonness  ? 

No,  I  will  lay  me  in  the  village  ground ; 

There  are  the  dead  respected.    The  poor  hind, 

Unlettered  as  he  is,  would  scorn  to  invade 

The  silent  resting-place  of  death.    I've  seen 

The  labourer,  returning  from  his  toil, 

Here  stay  his  steps,  and  call  his  children  round, 

And  slowly  spell  the  rudely  sculptured  rhymes, 

And,  in  his  rustic  manner,  moralize. 

I've  mark'd  with  what  a  silent  awe  he'd  spoken, 

With  head  uncover' d,  his  respectful  manner, 

And  all  the  honours  which  he  paid  the  grave, 

And  thought  on  cities,  where  even  cemeteries, 

Bestrew'd  with  all  the  emblems  of  mortality, 

Are  not  protected  from  the  drunken  insolence 

Of  wassailers  profane,  and  wanton  havoc. 

Grant,  Heaven,  that  here  my  pilgrimage  may  close! 

Yet,  if  this  be  denied,  where'er  my  bones 

May  lie— or  in  the  city's  crowded  bounds, 


30 


LIFE  OF 


Or  scatter' d  wide  o'er  the  huge  sweep  of  waters, 

Or  left  a  prey  on  some  deserted  shore 

To  the  rapacious  cormorant, — yet  still, 

(For  why  should  sober  reason  cast  away 

A  thought  which  soothes  the  soul  ?) — yet  still  my  spirit 

Shall  wing  its  way  to  these  my  native  regions, 

And  hover  o'er  this  spot.    Oh,  then  I'll  think 

Of  times  when  I  was  seated  'neath  this  yew 

In  solemn  rumination ;  and  will  smile 

With  joy  that  I  have  got  my  long'd  release. 

His  friends  are  of  opinion  that  he  never  thoroughly  re- 
€Overed  from  the  shock  which  his  constitution  had  sustained. 
Many  of  his  poems  indicate  that  he  thought  himself  in  danger 
of  consumption ;  he  was  not  aware  that  he  was  generating  or 
fostering  in  himself  another  disease,  little  less  dreadful,  and 
which  threatens  intellect  as  well  as  life.  At  this  time  youth 
was  in  his  favour,  and  his  hopes,  which  were  now  again  re- 
newed, produced  perhaps  a  better  effect  than  medicine.  Mr. 
Dashwood  obtained  for  him  an  introduction  to  Mr.  Simeon,  of 
King's  College,  and  with  this  he  was  induced  to  go  to  Cam- 
bridge. Mr.  Simeon,  from  the  recommendation  which  he 
received,  and  from  the  conversation  he  had  with  him,  promised 
to  procure  for  him  a  Sizarship  at  St.  John's,  and,  with  the 
additional  aid  of  a  friend,  to  supply  him  with  30Z.  annually. 
His  brother  Neville  promised  twenty ;  and  his  mother,  it  was 
hoped,  would  be  able  to  allow  fifteen  or  twenty  more.  With 
this,  it  was  thought,  he  could  go  through  college.  If  this 
prospect  had  not  been  opened  to  him,  he  would  probably  have 
turned  his  thoughts  towards  the  orthodox  dissenters. 

On  his  return  to  Nottingham,  the  Rev.  Robinson,  of 

Leicester,  and  some  other  friends,  advised  him  to  apply  to  the 
Elland  Society  for  assistance,  conceiving  that  it  would  be  less 
oppressive  to  his  feelings  to  be  dependent  on  a  Society  insti- 
tuted for  the  express  purpose  of  training  up  such  young  men 
as  himself  (that  is,  such  in  circumstances  and  opinions)  for  the 
ministry,  than  on  the  bounty  of  an  individual.  In  consequence 
of  this  advice,  he  went  to  Elland  at  the  next  meeting  of  the 
Society,  a  stranger  there,  and  without  one  friend  among  the 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


31 


menbers.  He  was  examined,  for  several  hours,  by  about  five- 
and-twenty  clergymen,  as  to  his  religious  views  and  sentiments, 
his  theological  knowledge,  and  his  classical  attainments.  Ir 
the  course  of  the  inquiry,  it  appeared  that  he  had  published  a 
volume  of  poems :  their  questions  now  began  to  be  very  un- 
pleasantly inquisitive  concerning  the  nature  of  these  poems, 
and  he  was  assailed  by  queries  from  all  quarters.  It  was  well 
for  Henry  that  they  did  not  think  of  referring  to  the  Monthly 
[Review  for  authority.  My  letter  to  him  happened  to  be  in 
his  pocket;  he  luckily  recollected  this,,  and*  produced  it  as  a 
testimony  in  his  favour.  They  did  mo  the  honour  to  say  that 
it  was  quite  sufficient,  and  pursued  this  part  of  their  inquiry 
no  farther.  Before  he  left  Elland,  he  was  given  to  understand 
that  they  were  well  satisfied  with  his  theological  knowledge ; 
that  they  thought  his  classical  proficiency  prodigious  for  his 
age,  and  that  they  had  placed  him  on  their  books.  He  re- 
turned little  pleased  with  his  journey.  His  friends  had  been 
mistaken ;  the  bounty  of  an  individual  calls  forth  a  sense  of 
kindness,  as  well  as  of  dependence :  that  of  a  Society  has  the 
virtue  of  charity  perhaps,  but  it  wants  the  grace.  He  now 
wrote  to  Mr.  Simeon,  stating  what  he  had  done,  and  that  the 
beneficence  of  his  unknown  friends  was  no  longer  necessary : 
but  that  gentleman  obliged  him  to  decline  the  assistance  of 
the  Society,  which  he  very  willingly  did. 

This  being  finally  arranged,  he  quitted  his  employers  in 
October,  1804.  How  much  he  had  conducted  himself  to  their 
satisfaction,  will  appear  by  this  testimony  of  Mr.  Enfield,  to 
his  diligence  and  uniform  worth.  "I  have  great  pleasure," 
says  this  gentleman,  "in  paying  the  tribute  to  his  memory,  of 
expressing  the  knowledge  which  was  afforded  me,  during  the 
period  of  his  connexion  with  Mr.  Coldham  and  myself,  of  his 
diligent  application,  his  ardour  for  study,  and  his  virtuous  and 
amiable  disposition.  He  very  soon  discovered  an  unusual 
aptness  in  comprehending  the  routine  of  business,  and  great 
ability  and  rapidity  in  the  execution  of  everything  which  was 
entrusted  to  him.  His  diligence  and  punctual  attention  were 
unremitted,  and  his  services  became  extremely  valuable  a  con- 
siderable time  before  he  left  us.  He  seemed  to  me  to  have  no 
relish  for  the  ordinary  pleasures  and  dissipations  of  young 


32 


LIFE  OP 


men ;  bis  mind  was  perpetually  employed,  either  in  the  business 
of  his  profession,  or  in  private  study.  With  his  fondness  lor 
literature,  we  were  well  acquainted,  but  had  no  reason  to  offer 
any  check  to  it,  for  he  never  permitted  the  indulgence  of  his 
literary  pursuits  to  interfere  with  the  engagements  of  business. 
The  difficulty  of  hearing,  under  which  he  laboured,  was  dis- 
tressing to  him  in  the  practice  of  Ms  profession,  and  was,  I 
think,  an  inducement,  in  co-operation  with  his  other  incli- 
nations, for  his  resolving  to  relinquish  the  law.  I  can,  with 
truth,  assert,  that  his  determination  was  matter  of  serious 
regret  to  my  partner  and  myself." 

Mr.  Simeon  had  advised  him  to  degrade  for  a  year,  and 
place  himself,  during  that  time,  under  some  scholar.  He  went 

accordingly  to  the  Rev.  Grainger,  of  Winteringham,  in 

Lincolnshire,  and  there,  notwithstanding  all  the  entreaties  of 
his  friends,  pursuing  the  same  unrelenting  course  of  study,  a 
second  illness  was  the  consequence.  When  he  was  recovering, 
he  was  prevailed  upon  to  relax,  to  ride  on  horseback,  and  to 
drink  wine ;  these  latter  remedies  he  could  not  long  afford, 
and  he  would  not  allow  himself  time  for  relaxation  when  he 
did  not  feel  its  immediate  necessity.  He  frequently,  at  this 
time,  studied  fourteen  hours  a  day:  the  progress  which  he 
made  in  twelve  months  was  indeed  astonishing :  when  he  went 
to  Cambridge,  he  was  immediately  as  much  distinguished  for 
his  classical  knowledge  as  his  genius :  but  the  seeds  of  death 
were  in  him,  and  the  place  to  which  he  had  so  long  looked  on 
with  hope,  served  unhappily  as  a  hot-house  to  ripen  them.* 

During  his  first  term,  one  of  the  University  Scholarships 

s*  During  his  residence  in  my  family,  says  Mr.  Grainger,  his  con- 
duct was  highly  becoming,  and  suitable  to  a  Christian  profession. 
He  was  mild  and  inoffensive,  modest,  unassuming,  and  affectionate. 
He  attended,  with  great  cheerfulness,  a  Sunday-school  which  I  was 
endeavouring  to  establish  in  the  village,  and  was  at  considerable 
pains  in  the  instruction  of  the  children;  and  I  have  repeatedly  ob- 
served, that  he  was  most  pleased  and  most  edified,  with  such  of  my 
sermons  and  addresses  to  my  people,  as  were  most  close,  plain,  and 
familiar.  When  we  parted,  we  parted  with  mutual  regret ;  and  by 
us  his  name  will  long  be  remembered  with  affection  and  delight. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


became  vacant,  and  Henry,  young  as  he  was  in  College,  and 
almost  self-taught,  was  advised,  by  those  who  were  best  able  to 
estimate  his  chance  of  success,  to  offer  himself  as  a  competitor 
for  it.  He  past  the  whole  term  in  preparing  himself  for  this, 
reading  for  College  subjects  in  bed,  in  his  walks,  or,  as  he  says, 
where,  when,  and  how  he  could,  never  having  a  moment  to 
spare,  and  often  going  to  his  tutor  without  having  read  at  all. 
His  strength  sunk  under  this,  and  though  he  had  declared 
himself  a  candidate,  he  was  compelled  to  decline ;  but  this  was 
not  the  only  misfortune.  The  general  College  examination 
came  on ;  he  was  utterly  unprepared  to  meet  it,  and  believed 
that  a  failure  here  would  have  ruined  his  prospects  for  ever. 
He  had  only  about  a  fortnight  to  read  what  other  men  had 
been  the  whole  term  reading.  Once  more  he  exerted  MmseK 
beyond  what  his  shattered  health  coidd  bear;  the  disorder 
returned,  and  he  went  to  his  tutor,  Mr.  Catton,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  and  told  him  that  he  could  not  go  into  the  Hall  to  tie 
examined.  Mr.  Catton,  however,  thought  his  success  here  of 
so  much  importance,  that  he  exhorted  him,  with  all  possible 
earnestness,  to  hold  out  the  six  days  of  the  examination. 
Strong  medicines  were  given  him,  to  enable  him  to  support  it, 
and  he  was  pronounced  the  first  man  of  Ins  year.  But  life  was 
the  price  which  he  was  to  pay  for  such  honours  as  this,  and 
Henry  is  not  the  first  young  man  to  whom  such  honours  have 
proved  fatal.  He  said  to  his  most  intimate  friend,  almost  the 
last  time  he  saw  him,  that  were  he  to  paint  a  picture  of  Tame, 
crowning  a  distinguished  under-graduate,  after  the  Senate- 
house  examination,  he  would  represent  her  as  concealing  a 
Death's  head  under  a  mask  of  beauty. 

When  this  was  over  he  went  to  London.  London  was  a 
new  scene  of  excitement,  and  what  his  mind  required  was  tran- 
quillity and  rest.  Before  he  left  College,  ho  had  become 
anxious  concerning  Ins  expenses,  fearing  that  they  exceeded  his 
means.  Mr.  Catton  perceived  this,  and  twice  called  him  to  his 
rooms,  to  assure  him  of  every  necessary  support,  and  every 
encouragement,  and  to  give  him  every  hope.  This  kindness 
relieved  his  spirits  of  a  heavy  weight,  and  on  his  return  he 
relaxed  a  little  from  his  studies,  but  it  was  only  a  littje.  I 

D 


34 


LIFE  OF 


found  among  his  papers  the  day  thus  planned  out : — "Rise  at 
half-past  five.  Devotions  and  walk  till  seven.  Chapel  and 
breakfast  till  eight.  Study  and  lectures  till  one.  Tour  and  a 
}ialf  clear  reading.  Walk  &c.  and  dinner,  and  Woollaston, 
and  chapel  to  six.  Six  to  nine,  reading — three  hours.  Nine 
to  ten,  devotions.    Bed  at  ten." 

Among  his  latest  writings  are  these  resolutions  : — 

"  1  will  never  be  in  bed  after  six. 

I  will  not  drink  tea  out  above  once  a  week,  excepting  on  Sun- 
days, unless  there  appear  some  good  reason  for  so  doing. 

I  will  never  pass  a  day  without  reading  some  portion  of  the 
Scriptures. 

1  will  labour  diligently  in  my  mathematical  studies,  because  I 
half  suspect  myself  of  a  dislike  to  them. 

I  will  walk  two  hours  a  day,  upon  the  average  of  every  week. 

Sit  mi  hi  gratia  addita  adhcecfacienda" 


About  this  time,  judging  by  the  hand- writing,  he  wrote 
•down  the  following  admonitory  sentences,  which,  as  the  paper 
mi  which  they  are  written  is  folded  into  the  shape  of  a  very 
small  book,  it  is  probable  he  carried  about  with  him  as  a 
manual. 

"  1.  Death  and  judgment  are  near  at  hand. 

2.  Though  thy  bodily  part  be  now  in  health  and  ease,  the 
dews  of  death  will  soon  sit  upon  thy  forehead. 

3.  That  which,  seems  so  sweet  and  desirable  to  thee  now, 
will,  if  yielded  to,  become  bitterness  of  soul  to  thee  all  thy  life 
after. 

4.  When  the  waters  are  come  over  thy  soul,  and  when,  in 
the  midst  of  much  bodily  anguish,  thou  distinguishest  the  dim 
shores  of  Eternity  before  thee,  what  wouldcst  thou  not  give  to 
"■e  lighter  by  this  one  sin  ? 

-5.  God  has  long  withheld  his  arm ;  what  if  his  forbearance 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


35 


be  now  at  an  end  ?  Canst  thou  not  contemplate  these  things 
with  the  eyes  of  death  ?  Art  thou  not  a  dying  man,  dying 
every  day,  every  hour  ? 

6.  Is  it  not  a  fearful  thing  to  shrink  from  the  summons 
when  it  comes  ? — to  turn  with  horror  and  despair  from  the 
future  being  ?  Think  what  strains  of  joy  and  tranquillity  fall 
on  the  ear  of  the  saint  who  is  just  swooning  into  the  arms  of 
his  Redeemer ;  what  fearful  shapes,  and  dreadful  images  of  a 
disturbed  conscience,  surround  the  sinner's  bed,  when  the  last 
twig  which  he  grasped  fails  him,  and  the  gulf  yawns  to 
receive  him. 

7.  Oh,  my  soul,  if  thou  art  yet  ignorant  of  the  enormity  of 
sin,  turn  thine  eyes  to  the  man  who  is  bleeding  to  death  on 
the  cross !  See  how  the  blood  from  liis  pierced  hands  trickles 
down  his  arms,  and  the  more  copious  streams  from  his  feet  run 
on  the  accursed  tree,  and  stain  the  grass  with  purple  !  Behold 
his  features,  though  scarcely  animated  with  a  few  remaining 
sparks  of  life,  yet  how  full  of  love,  pity,  and  tranquillity  !  A 
tear  is  trickling  down  his  cheek,  and  his  lip  quivers.  He  is 
praying  for  his  murderers  !  0,  my  soul !  it  is  thy  Redeemer- 
it  is  thy  God !  And  this  too  for  Sin — for  Sin  !  and  wilt  thou 
ever  again  submit  to  its  yoke  ? 

8.  Remember  that  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God  is 
ready  to  save  thee  from  transgression.  It  is  always  at  hand : 
thou  canst  not  sin  without  wilfully  rejecting  its  aid. 

9.  And  is  there  real  pleasure  in  sin  ?  Thou  knowest  there 
is  not.  But  there  is  pleasure,  pure  and  exquisite  pleasure,  in 
holiness.  The  Holy  Ghost  can  make  the  paths  of  religion  and 
virtue,  hard  as  they  seem,  and  thorny,  ways  of  pleasantness  and 
peace,  where,  though  there  be  thorns,  yet  are  there  also  roses ; 
and  where  all  the  wounds  which  we  suffer  in  the  fiesn,  _  ^\ 
the  hardness  of  the  journey,  are  so  healed  by  the  balm  of  the 
spirit,  that  they  rather  give  joy  than  pain.,, 


The  exercise  which  Henry  took  was  no  relaxation ;  he  still 
continued  the  habit  of  studying  while*  he  walked ;  and  in  this 
D  2 


30 


LIFE  or 


manner,  while  lie  was  at  Cambridge,  committed  to  memory  a 
whole  tragedy  of  Euripides.  Twice  he  distinguished  himself  in 
the  follo  wing  year,  being  again  pronounced  first  at  the  great  Col- 
lege examination,  and  also  one  of  the  three  best  theme  writers, 
between  whom  the  examiners  could  not  decide.  The  College 
offered  him,  at  their  expense,  a  private  tutor  in  mathematics, 
during  the  long  vacation ;  and  Mr.  Catton,  by  procuring  for 
Mm  exhibitions  to  the  amount  of  per  annum,  enabled  him 
to  give  up  the  pecuniary  assistance  which  he  had  received  from 
Mr.  Simeon  and  other  friends.  This  intention  he  had  ex- 
pressed in  a  letter,  written  twelve  months  before  his  death. 
"  With  regard  to  my  college  expenses,  (he  says,)  I  have  the 
pleasure  to  inform  you,  that  I  shall  be  obliged,  in  strict  recti- 
tude, to  waive  the  offers  of  many  of  my  friends.  I  shall  not 
even  need  the  sum  Mr.  Simeon  mentioned,  after  the  first  year ; 
and  it  is  not  impossible  that  I  may  be  able  to  live  without  any 
assistance  at  all.  I  confess  I  feel  pleasure  at  the  thought  of 
this,  not  through  any  vain  pride  of  independence,  but  because 
I  shall  then  give  a  more  unbiassed  testimony  to  the  truth,  than 
if  I  were  supposed  to  be  bound  to  it  by  any  ties  of  obligation 
or  gratitude.  I  shall  always  feel  as  much  indebted  for  intended 
as  for  actually  afforded  assistance ;  and  though  I  should  never 
think  a  sense  of  thankfulness  an  oppressive  burthen,  yet  I  shall 
be  happy  to  evince  it,  when  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  the  obli- 
gation to  it  has  been  discharged."  Never,  perhaps,  had  any 
young  man,  in  so  short  a  time,  excited  such  expectations; 
every  University  honour  was  thought  to  be  within  his  reach ; 
he  was  set  down  as  a  medallist,  and  expected  to  take  a  senior 
wrangler's  degree ;  but  these  expectations  were  poison  to 
liim ;  they  goaded  him  to  fresh  exertions  when  his  strength 
was  spent.  His  situation  became  truly  miserable :  to  his 
brother,  and  to  his  mother,  he  wrote  always  that  he  had 
relaxed  in  his  studies,  and  that  he  was  better ;  always  holding 
out  to  them  his  hopes,  and  his  good  fortune :  but  to  the  most 
intimate  of  his  friends,  (Mr.  Maddock),  his  letters  told  a 
different  tale :  to  him  he  complained  of  dreadful  palpitations — 
of  nights  of  sleeplessness  and  horror,  and  of  spirits  depressed 
to  the  very  depth  of  wretchedness,  so  that  he  went  from  one 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


37 


acquaintance  to  another,  imploring  society,  even  as  a  starving 
beggar  intreats  for  food.  During  the  course  of  this  summer, 
it  was  exp3cted  that  the  Mastership  of  the  Free-School  at 
Nottingham  would  shortly  become  vacant.  A  relation  of  his 
family  was  at  that  time  mayor  of  the  town ;  he  suggested  to 
them  what  an  advantageous  situation  it  would  be  for  Henry, 
and  offered  to  secure  for  him  the  necessary  interest.  But, 
though  the  salary  and  emoluments  are  estimated  at  from  400 
to  600Z.  per  annum,  Henry  declined  the  offer ;  because,  had 
he  accepted  it,  it  would  have  frustrated  his  intentions  with 
respect  to  the  ministry.  This  was  certainly  no  common  act  of 
forbearance  in  one  so  situated  as  to  fortune,  especially  as  the 
hope  which  he  had  most  at  heart,  was  that  of  being  enabled  to 
assist  his  family,  and  in  some  degree  requite  the  care  and 
anxiety  of  his  father  and  mother,  by  making  them  comfortable 
in  their  declining  years. 

The  indulgence  shown  him  by  his  college,  in  providing  him 
a  tutor  during  the  long  vacation,  was  peculiarly  unfortunate. 
His  only  chance  of  life  was  from  relaxation,  and  home  was  the 
only  place  where  he  would  have  relaxed  to  any  purpose. 
Before  this  time  he  had  seemed  to  be  gaming  strength;  it 
failed  as  the  year  advanced :  he  went  once  more  to  London,  to 
recruit  himself,— -the  worst  place  to  which  he  could  have  gone; 
the  variety  ot  stimulating  objects  there  hurried  and  agitated 
him,  and  when  he  returned  to  College,  he  was  so  completely 
ill,  that  no  power  of  medicine  could  save  him.  His  mind  was 
worn  out,  and  it  was  the  opinion  of  his  medical  attendants, 
that  if  he  had  recovered,  his  intellect  would  have  been  affected. 
His  brother  Neville  was  just  at  this  time  to  have  visited  him. 
On  his  first  seizure,  Henry  found  himself  too  ill  to  receive  him, 
and  wrote  to  say  so ;  he  added,  with  that  anxious  tenderness 
towards  the  feelings  of  a  most  affectionate  family  which  always 
appeared  in  Iris  letters,  that  he  thought  himself  recovering ; 
but  his  disorder  increased  so  rapidly,  that  this  letter  was  never 
sent ;  it  was  found  in  his  pocket  after  his  decease.  One  of 
his  friends  wrote  to  acquaint  Neville  with  his  danger :  he 
hastened  down;  but  Henry  was  delirious  when  he  arrived. 
He  knew  him  only  for  a  few  moments ;  the  next  day  sunk  into 


38 


LIFE  OF 


a  state  of  stupor;  and  on  Sunday,  October  19th,  1806,  it 
pleased  God  to  remove  him  to  a  better  world,  and  a  higher 
state  of  existence. 

*****  * 

The  will  which  I  had  manifested  to  serve  Henry,  he  had 
accepted  as  the  deed,  and  had  expressed  himself  upon  the  sub- 
ject in  terms  which  it  would  have  humbled  me  to  read,  at  any 
other  time  than  when  I  was  performing  the  last  service  to  his 
memory.  On  his  decease,  Mr.  B.  Macldock  addressed  a  letter 
to  me,  informing  me  of  the  event,  as  one  who  had  professed 
an  interest  in  his  friend's  fortunes.  I  inquired,  in  my  reply, 
if  there  was  any  intention  of  publishing  what  he  might  have 
left,  and  if  I  could  be  of  any  assistance  in  the  publication;  this 
led  to  a  correspondence  with  his  excellent  brother,  and  the 
whole  of  his  papers  were  consigned  into  my  hands,  with  as 
many  of  his  letters  as  could  be  collected. 

These  papers  (exclusive  of  the  correspondence)  filled  a  box 
of  considerable  size.  Mr.  Coleridge  was  present  when  I 
opened  them,  and  was,  as  well  as  myself,  equally  affected  and 
astonished  at  the  proofs  of  industry  which  they  displayed. 
Some  of  them  had  been  written  before  his  hand  was  formed, 
probably  before  he  was  thirteen.  There  were  papers  upon 
law,  upon  electricity,  upon  chemistry,  upon  the  Latin  and 
Greek  languages,  from  their  rudiments  to  the  higher  branches 
of  critical  study,  upon  history,  chronology,  divinity,  the  fathers, 
&c.  Nothing  seemed  to  have  escaped  him.  His  poems  were 
numerous:  among  the  earliest,  was  a  sonnet  addressed  to 
myself,  long  before  the  little  intercourse  which  had  subsisted 
between  us  had  taken  place.  Little  did  he  think,  when  it  was 
written,  on  what  occasion  it  would  fall  into  my  hands.  He 
had  begun  three  tragedies  when  very  young :  one  was  upon 
Boadicea,  another  upon  Inez  de  Castro:  the  third  was  a 
fictitious  subject.  He  had  planned  also  a  History  of  Notting- 
ham. There  was  a  letter  upon  the  famous  Nottingham  election, 
which  seemed  to  have  been  intended  either  for  the  newspapers, 
or  for  a  separate  pamphlet.  It  was  written  to  confute  the 
absurd  stories  of  the  Tree  of  Liberty,  and  the  Goddess  of  Rea- 
son; with  the  most  minute  knowledge  of  the  circumstances. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITS. 


30' 


and  a  not  improper  feeling  of  indignation  against  so  infamous 
a  calumny ;  and  this  came  with  more  weight  from  him,  as  Ins 
party  inclinations  seemed  to  have  leaned  towards  the  side 
which  he  was  opposing.  This  was  his  only  finished  composi- 
tion in  prose.  Much  of  his  time,  latterly,  had  been  devoted 
to  the  study  of  Greek  prosody :  he  had  begun  several  poems 
in  Greek,  and  a  translation  of  the  Samson  Agonistcs.  I  have 
inspected  all  the  existing  manuscripts  of  Chatterton,  and  they 
excited  less  wonder  than  these. 

Had  my  knowledge  of  Henry  terminated  here,  I  should 
have  hardly  believed  that  my  admiration  and  regret  for  him 
could  have  been  increased;  but  I  had  yet  to  learn  that  his 
moral  qualities,  his  good  sense,  and  his  whole  feelings,  were  as 
admirable  as  his  industry  and  genius.  All  his  letters  to  his 
family  have  been  communicated  to  me  without  reserve,  and 
most  of  those  to  his  friends.  A  selection  from  these  are 
arranged  in  chronological  order,  in  these  volumes,*  which  will 
make  him  his  own  biographer,  and  lay  open  to  the  world  as 
pure,  and  as  excellent,  a  heart,  as  it  ever  pneased  the  Almighty 
to  warm  with  life.  Much  has  been  suppressed,  which,  if 
Henry  had  been,  like  Chatterton,  of  another  generation,  I 
should  willingly  have  published,  and  the  world  would  willingly 
have  received ;  but  in  doing  honour  to  the  dead,  I  have  been 
scrupulously  careful  never  to  forget  the  living. 

It  is  not  possible  to  conceive  a  human  being  more  amiable 
in  all  the  relations  of  life.  He  was  the  confidential  friend  and 
adviser  of  every  member  of  his  family ;  this  he  instinctively 
became ;  and  the  thorough  good  sense  of  his  advice  is  not  less 
remarkable  than  the  affection  with  which  it  is  always  com- 
municated. To  his  mother,  he  is  as  earnest  in  beseeching  her 
to  be  careful  of  her  health,  as  he  is  in  labouring  to  convince 
her  that  his  own  complaints  were  abating ;  Ins  letters  to  her 
are  always  of  hopes,  of  consolation,  and  of  love.  To  Neville 
he  writes  with  the  most  brotherly  intimacy,  still,  however,  in 
that  occasional  tone  of  advice  which  it  was  his  nature  to  as- 
sume, not  from  any  arrogance  of  superiority,  but  from  earnest- 

*  The  Remains  of  H.  Kirke  White  were  originally  published 
in  two  volumes. 


40 


LIFE  OF 


ness  of  pure  affection.  To  his  younger  brother  he  addresses 
himself  like  the  tenderest  and  wisest  parent ;  and  to  two 
sisters,  then  too.  young  for  any  other  communication,  he  writes 
to  direct  their  studies,  to  inquire  into  their  progress,  to  en- 
courage, and  to  improve  them.  Such  letters  as  these  are  not 
for  the  public ;  but  they  to  whom  they  are  addressed  will  lay 
them  to  their  hearts  like  relics,  and  will  find  in  them  a  saving 
virtue,  more  than  ever  relics  possessed. 

With  regard  to  his  poems,  the  criterion  for  selection  was 
not  so  plain ;  undoubtedly  many  have  been  chosen  which  he 
himself  would  not  have  published,  and  some  few  which,  had 
he  lived  to  have  taken  that  rank  among  English  poets  which 
would  assuredly  have  been  within  Ids  reach,  I  also  should  then 
have  rejected  among  his  posthumous  papers.  I  have,  how- 
ever, to  the  best  of  my  judgment,  selected  none  which  docs 
not  either  mark  the  state  of  his  mind,  or  its  progress,  or  dis- 
cover evident  proofs  of  what  he  would  have  been,  if  it  had  not 
been  the  will  of  Heaven  to  remove  him  so  soon.  The  reader 
who  feels  any  admiration  for  Henry  will  take  some  interest  in 
all  these  remains,  because  they  are  his ;  he  who  shall  feel  none 
must  have  a  blind  heart,  and  therefore  a  blind  understanding. 
Such  poems  are  to  be  considered  as  making  up  his  history. 
But  the  greater  number  are  of  such  beauty,  that  Chatterton  is 
the  only  youthful  poet  whom  he  does  not  leave  far  behind  him. 

While  he  was  under  Mr.  Grainger,  he  wrote  very  little ; 
and  when  he  went  to  Cambridge,  he  was  advised  to  stifle  his 
poetical  fire,  for  severer  and  more  important  studies  ;  to  lay  a 
billet  on  the  embers  until  he  had  taken  his  degree,  and  then 
he  might  fan  it  into  a  flame  again.  This  advice  he  followed 
so  scrupulously,  that  a  few  fragments,  written  chiefly  upon 
the  back  of  his  mathematical  papers,  are  all  which  he  produced 
at  the  University.  The  greater  part,  therefore,  of  these  poems, 
indeed  nearly  the  whole  of  them,  were  written  before  he  was 
nineteen.  Wise  as  the  advice  may  have  been  which  had  been 
given  him,  it  is  now  to  be  regretted  that  he  adhered  to  it,  his 
latter  fragments  bearing  all  those  marks  of  improvement  which 
were  to  be  expected  from  a  mind  so  rapidly  and  continually 
progressive.   Frequently  he  expresses  a  fear  that  early  death 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


41 


would  rob  him  of  his  fame ;  yet,  short  as  liis  life  was,  it  has 
been  long  enough  for  him  to  leave  works  worthy  of  remem- 
brance. The  very  circumstance  of  his  early  death  gives  a  new 
interest  to  his  memory,  and  thereby  new  force  to  his  example. 
Just  at  that  age  when  the  painter  would  have  wished  to  fix 
his  likeness,  and  the  lover  of  poetry  would  delight  to  con- 
template him,  in  the  fair  morning  of  his  virtues,  the  full  spring 
blossom  of  his  hopes, — just  at  that  age  hath  death  set  the  seal 
of  eternity  upon  him,  and  the  beautiful  hath  been  made  per- 
manent. To  the  young  poets  who  come  after  him,  Henry  will 
be  what  Chatterton  was  to  liim ;  and  they  will  find  in  him  an 
example  of  hopes,  with  regard  to  worldly  fortune,  as  humble, 
and  as  exalted  in  all  better  things,  as  are  enjoined  equally  by 
wisdom  and  religion,  by  the  experience  of  man,  and  the  word 
of  God.  And  this  example  will  be  as  encouraging  as  it  is 
excellent.  It  has  been  too  much  the  custom  to  complain  that 
genius  is  neglected,  and  to  blame  the  public  when  the  public 
is  not  in  fault.  They  who  are  thus  lamented  as  the  victims  of 
genius,  have  been,  in  almost  every  instance,  the  victims  of 
their  own  vices ;  while  genius  has  been  made,  like  charity,  to 
cover  a  multitude  of  sins,  and  to  excuse  that  which  in  reality 
it  aggravates.  In  this  age,  and  in  this  country,  whoever 
deserves  encouragement,  is,  sooner  or  later,  sure  to  receive  it. 
Of  this,  Henry's  history  is  an  honourable  proof.  The  par- 
ticular patronage  which  he  accepted,  was  given  as  much  to  his 
piety  and  religious  opinions,  as  to  his  genius ;  but  assistance 
was  offered  him  from  other  quarters.  Mr.  P.  Thomson  (of 
Boston,  Lincolnshire),  merely  upon  perusing  his  little  volume, 
wrote  to  know  how  he  could  serve  him ;  and  there  were  many 
friends  of  literature  who  were  ready  to  have  afforded  him  any 
support  which  he  needed,  if  he  had  not  been  thus  provided. 
In  the  University,  he  received  every  encouragement  which  he 
merited,  and  from  Mr.  Simeon,  and  his  tutor,  Mr.  Catton,  the 
most  fatherly  kindness. 

"  I  can  venture,"  says  a  lady  of  Cambridge,  in  a  letter  to 
his  brother,  "  I  can  venture  to  say,  with  certainty,  there  was 
no  member  of  the  University,  however  high  his  rank  or  talents, 
who  would  not  have  been  happy  to  have  availed  themselves  of 


42 


LIFE  OF 


the  opportunity  of  being  acquainted  with  Mr.  Henry  Kirke 
White.  I  mention  this  to  introduce  a  wish,  which  has  been 
expressed  to  me  so  often  by  the  senior  members  of  the  Uni- 
versity, that  I  dare  not  decline  the  task  they  have  imposed 
upon  me ;  it  is  their  hope  that  Mr.  Southcy  will  do  as  much 
justice  to  Mr.  Henry  White's  limited  wishes,  to  his  unas- 
suming pretensions,  and  to  his  rational  and  fervent  piety,  as  to 
his  various  acquirements,  Ins  polished  taste,  his  poetical  fancy, 
his  undeviating  principles,  and  the  excellence  of  his  moral 
character;  and  that  he  will  suffer  it  to  be  understood,  that 
these  inestimable  qualities  liad  not  been  unobserved,  nor  would 
they  have  remained  unacknowledged.  It  was  the  general  obser- 
vation, that  he  possessed  genius  without  its  eccentricities." 

Of  his  fervent  piety,  his  letters,  his  prayers,  and  his  hymns, 
will  afford  ample  and  interesting  proofs.  I  must  be  permitted 
to  say,  that  my  own  views  of  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ  differ 
essentially  from  the  system  of  belief  which  he  had  adopted ; 
but,  having  said  this,  it  is,  indeed,  my  anxious  wish  to  do  full 
justice  to  piety  so  fervent.  It  was  in  him  a  living  and  quick- 
ening principle  of  goodness,  which  sanctified  all  his  hopes,  and 
all  his  affections ;  winch  made  him  keep  watch  over  his  own 
heart,  and  enabled  him  to  correct  the  few  symptoms  which  it 
ever  displayed  of  human  imperfection. 

His  temper  had  been  irritable  in  his  younger  days,  but  this 
he  had  long  since  effectually  overcome :  the  marks  of  youthful 
confidence,  which  appear  in  Ins  earliest  letters,  had  also  disap- 
peared ;  and  it  was  impossible  for  man  to  be  more  tenderly 
patient  of  the  faults  of  others,  more  uniformly  meek,  or  more 
unaffectedly  humble.  He  seldom  discovered  any  sportiveness 
of  imagination,  though  he  would  very  ably  and  pleasantly  rally 
any  one  of  Iris  friends  for  any  little  peculiarity ;  Ins  conversa- 
tion was  always  sober,  and  to  the  purpose.  That  which  is 
most  remarkable  in  him,  is  his  uniform  good  sense,  a  faculty 
perhaps  less  common  than  genius.  There  never  existed  a  more 
dutiful  son,  a  more  affectionate  brother,  a  warmer  friend,  nor  a 
devouter  christian.  Of  Ins  powers  of  mind  it  is  superfluous  to 
speak ;  they  were  acknowledged  wherever  they  were  known. 
It  would  be  idle  too,  to  say  what  hopes  were  entertained  of 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


43 


him,  and  what  he  might  have  accomplished  in  iiteratnre.  These 
volumes  contain  what  he  has  left, — immature  buds,  and  blos- 
soms shaken  from  the  tree,  and  green  fruit;  yet  will  they 
evince  what  the  harvest  would  have  been*  and  secure  for  him 
that  remembrance  upon  earth  for  which  he  toiled. 

u  Thou  soul  of  God's  hest  earthly  mould, 
Thou  happy  soul !  and  can  it  be 
That  there    *     *  * 
Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  !** 

Wordswdh, 


LETTERS. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  September,  1799. 

DEAJL  EllOTHEll, 

In  consequence  of  your  repeated  solicitations,  I  now  sit 
down  to  write  to  you,  although  I  never  received  an  answer  to 
the  last  letter  which  I  wrote,  nearly  six  months  ago  ;  but  as  I 
never  heard  you  mention  it  in  any  of  my  mother's  letters,  I  am 
induced  to  think  it  has  miscarried,  or  been  mislaid  in  your 
office. 

It  is  now  nearly  four  months  since  I  entered  into  Mr.  Cold- 
ham's  office,  and  it  is  with  pleasure  I  can  assure  you  that  I 
never  yet  found  any  thing  disagreeable,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
every  thing  I  do  seems  a  pleasure  to  me,  and  for  a  very  obvious 
reason; — it  is  a  business  which  I  like — a  business  which  I 
chose  before  all  others ;  and  I  have  two  good-tempered,  easy 
masters,  but  who  will,  nevertheless,  see  that  their  business  is 
done  in  a  neat  and  proper  manner.  The  study  of  the  law  is 
well  known  to  be  a  dry,  difficult  task,  and  requires  a  compre- 
hensive, good  understanding ;  and  I  hope  you  will  allow  me 
(without  charging  me  with  egotism)  to  have  a  tolerable  one  ; 
and  I  trust,  with  perseverance,  and  a  very  large  law  library  to 
refer  to,  I  shall  be  able  to  accomplish  the  study  of  so  much  of 
the  laws  of  England,  and  our  system  of  jurisprudence,  in  less 
than  five  years,  as  to  enable  me  to  be  a  country  attorney ;  and 
then,  as  I  shall  have  two  more  years  to  serve,  I  hope  I  shall 
attain  so  much  knowledge  in  all  parts  of  the  law,  as  to  enable 
me,  with  a  little  study  at  the  inns  of  court,  to  hold  an  argu- 
ment, on  the  nice  points  in  the  law,  with  the  best  attorney  in 
the  kingdom.  A  man  that  understands  the  law  is  sure  to  have 
business  ;  and  in  case  I  have  no  thoughts,  in  case,  that  is,  that 


LETTERS  OF  HENRY  KIIiKE  WHITE. 


45 


I  do  not  aspire  to  hold  the  honourable  place  of  a  barrister,  T 
shall  feel  sure  of  gaining  a  genteel  livelihood  at  the  business 
to  which  I  am  articled. 

I  attend  at  the  office  at  eight  in  the  morning,  and  leave  at 
eight  in  the  evening ;  then  attend  my  Latin  until  nine,  which, 
you  may  be  sure,  is  pretty  close  confinement. 

Mr.  Coldham  is  clerk  to  the  commercial  commissioners, 
which  has  occasioned  us  a  deal  of  extraordinary  work.  I 
worked  all  Sunday,  and  until  twelve  o'clock  on  Saturday  night, 
when  they  were  hurried  to  give  in  the  certificates  to  the  bank. 
We  had  also  a  very  troublesome  cause  last  assizes,  The  Cor- 
poration versus  Gee,  which  we  (the  attornies  for  the  corpora- 
tion) lost.  It  was  really  a  very  fatiguing  day,  (I  mean  the 
day  on  which  it  was  tried.)  I  never  got  any  thing  to  eat,  from 
five  in  the  afternoon  the  preceding  day,  until  twelve  the  next 
flight,  when  the  trial  ended . 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  2Gth  June,  1800. 

Dear  Brother, 

***** 
My  mother  has  allowed  me  a  good  deal  lately  for  books, 
and  I  have  a  large  assortment,  (a  retailer's  phrase.)  But  I 
hope  you  do  not  suppose  they  consist  of  novels; — no — I  have 
made  a  firm  resolution  never  to  spend  above  one  hour  at  this 
amusement.  Though  I  have  been  obliged  to  enter  into  this 
resolution  in  consequence  of  a  vitiated  taste  acquired  by  reading 
romances,  I  do  not  intend  to  banish  them  entirely  from  my 
desk.  After  long  and  fatiguing  researches  in  Blackstone  or 
Coke,  when  the  mind  becomes  weak,  through  intense  applica- 
tion, Tom  Jones,  or  Robinson  Crusoe,  will  afford  a  pleasing 
and  necessary  relaxation. 

Apropos — now  we  are  speaking  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  I  shall 
observe,  that  it  is  allowed  to  be  the  best  novel  for  youth  in 
the  English  language.  De  Eoe,  the  author,  was  a  singular 
character ;  but  as  I  make  no  doubt  you  have  read  his  life,  I 
will  not  trouble  you  with  any  further  remark. 


46 


LETTERS  OF 


The  books  which  I  now  read  with  attention,  are  Blackstone, 
Knox's  Essays,  Plutarch,  Chesterfield's  Letters,  four  large 
volumes,  Yirgil,  Homer,  and  Cicero,  and  several  others.  Black- 
stone  and  Knox,  Yirgil  and  Cicero,  I  have  got ;  the  others  I 
read  out  of  Mr.  Coldham's  library.  I  have  finished  Rollin's 
Ancient  History,  Blair's  Lectures,  Smith's  Wealth  of  Nations, 
Hume's  England,  and  British  Nepos,  lately.  When  I  have 
read  Knox,  I  will  send  it  you,  and  recommend  it  to  your  atten- 
tive perusal ;  it  is  a  most  excellent  work.  I  also  read  now 
the  British  Classics,  the  common  edition  of  which  I  now  take 
in ;  it  comes  every  fortnight ;  I  dare  say  you  have  seen  it ;  it 
is  Cooke's  edition.  I  would  recommend  you  also  to  read 
these  ;  I  will  send  them  to  you.  I  have  got  the  Citizen  of  the 
World,  Idler,  Goldsmith's  Essays,  and  part,  of  the  Rambler. 
I  will  send  you  soon  the  fourth  number  of  the  Monthly  Pre- 
ceptor. I  am  noticed  as  worthy  of  commendation,  and  as 
affording  an  encouraging  prospect  of  future  excellence. — You 
will  laugh.  I  have  also  turned  poet,  and  have  translated  an 
ode  of  Horace  into  English  verse,  also  for  the  Monthly  Pre- 
ceptor, but,  unfortunately,  when  I  sent  it,  I  forgot  the  title, 
so  it  won't  be  noticed. 

I  do  not  forsake  the  flowery  paths  of  poesy,  for  that  is  my 
chief  delight;  I  read  the  best  poets.  Mr.  Coldham  has  got 
Johnson's  complete  set,  with  their  lives;  these,  of  course, 
I  read. 

With  a  little  drudgery,  I  read  Italian — Have  got  some  good 
Italian  works,  as  Pastor  Eido,  &c.  &c.  I  taught  myself,  and 
have  got  a  grammar. 

I  must  now  beg  leave  to  return  you  my  sincere  thanks  for 
your  kind  present.  I  like  "  La  Bruyere  the  Less"  very  much; 
I  have  read  the  original  La  Bruyere ;  I  think  him  like  Hoche- 
foucault.    Madame  de  Genlis  is  a  very  able  woman. 

Sfc  Sfc  ^  ¥fc 

But  I  must  now  attempt  to  excuse  my  neglect  in  not 
writing  to  you.  Eirst,  I  have  been  very  busy  with  these 
essays  and  poems  for  the  Monthly  Preceptor.  Second,  I  was 
rather  angry  at  your  last  letter — I  can  bear  anything  but  a 
sneer,  and  it  was  one  continued  grin  from  beginning  to  end,  as 


HENRY  KIT5KE  WHITE. 


47 


were  all  trie  notices  you  made  of  me  in  my  mother's  letters, 
and  I  could  not,  nor  can  I  now,  brook  it.  I  could  say  much 
more,  but  it  is  very  late,  and  must  beg  leave  to  wish  you  good 
night. 

I  am,  dear  brother, 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

H.  K.  White. 

P.S.  You  may  expect  a  regular  correspondence  from  me  in 
future,  but  no  sneers ;  and  shall  be  very  obliged  by  a  long 
letter. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  25th  June,  1800. 

Dear  Neville, 

$  *  *  *  $ 

You  are  inclined  to  flatter  me  when  you  compare  my  appli- 
cation with  yours;  in  truth,  I  am  not  half  so  assiduous  as  you, 
and  I  am  conscious  I  waste  a  deal  of  time  unwittingly.  But, 
in  reading,  I  am  upon  the  continual  search  for  improvement : 
I  thirst  after  knowledge,  and  though  my  disposition  is  natu- 
rally idle,  I  conquer  it  when  reading  an  useful  book.  The 
plan  which  I  pursued,  in  order  to  subdue  my  disinclination  to 
dry  books,  was  this,  to  begin  attentively  to  peruse  it,  and 
continue  thus  one  hour  every  day:  the  book  insensibly,  by 
this  means,  becomes  pleasing  to  you ;  and  even  when  reading 
Blackstone's  Commentaries,  which  are  very  dry,  I  lay  down 
the  book  with  regret. 

With  regard  to  the  Monthly  Preceptor,  I  certainly  shall  be 
agreeable  to  your  taking  it  in,  as  my  only  objection  was  the 
extreme  impatience  winch  I  feel  to  see  whether  my  essays 
have  been  successful ;  but  this  may  be  obviated  by  your  speedy 
perusal,  and  not  neglecting  to  forward  it.  But  you  must  have 
the  goodness  not  to  begin  till  August,  as  my  bookseller  cannot 
stop  it  this  month. 

•         *         *         *    •      *  * 

I  iiAOl  a  ticket  given  me  to  the  boxes,  on  Monday  night,  for 
the  benefit  of  Campbell,  from  Drury-lane,  and  there  was  such 


4S 


LETTERS  OF 


a  riot  as  never  was  experienced  here  before.  He  is  a  democrat, 
and  the  soldiers  planned  a  riot  in  conjunction  with  the  mob. 
We  heard  the  shouting  of  the  rabble  in  the  street  before  the 
play  was  over :  the  moment  the  curtain  dropt,  an  officer  went 
into  the  front  box,  and  gave  the  word  of  command:  imme- 
diately about  sixty  troopers  started  up,  and  six  trumpeters  in 
the  pit  played  "  God  save  the  King."  The  noise  was  astonish- 
ing. The  officers  in  the  boxes  then  drew  their  swords,  and 
at  another  signal  the  privates  in  the  pit  drew  their  bludgeons, 
which  they  had  hitherto  concealed,  and  attacked  all  indis- 
criminately that  had  not  an  uniform :  the  officers  did  the  same 
with  their  swords,  and  the  house  was  one  continued  scene  of 
confusion :  one  pistol  was  fired,  and  the  ladies  were  fainting 
in  the  lobby.  The  outer  doors  were  shut,  to  keep  out  the 
mob,  and  the  people  jumped  on  the  stage  as  a  last  resource. 
One  of  these  noble  officers,  seeing  one  man  stand  in  the  pit 
with  his  hat  on,  jumped  over  the  division  and  cut  him  with  Iris 
sword,  which  the  man  instantly  wrenched  from  him  and  broke, 
whilst  the  officer  sneaked  back  in  disgrace.  They  then  formed 
a  troop,  and  having  emptied  the  playhouse,  they  scoured  the 
streets  with  their  swords,  and  returned  home  victorious.  The 
players  are,  in  consequence,  dismissed,  and  we  have  informa- 
tions in  our  office  against  the  officers. 

$         *         *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  Michaelmas-day  1800. 

Dear  Neville, 

I  cannot  divine  what,  in  an  epistolary  correspondence, 
can  have  such  charms  (with  people  who  write  only  common- 
place occurrences)  as  to  attach  a  man  from  his  usual  affairs, 
and  make  him  waste  time  and  paper  on  what  cannot  be  of  the 
ieast  real  benefit  to  his  correspondent.  Amongst  relatives, 
certainly  there  is  alvays  an  incitement,  we  always  feel  an 
anxiety  for  their  welfare.    But  I  have  no  friend  so  dear  tc 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


49 


me,  as  to  cause  me  to  take  the  trouble  of  reading  his  letters, 
if  they  only  contained  an  account  of  his  health,  and  the  mere 
nothings  of  the  day ;  indeed,  such  an  one  would  be  unworthy 
of  friendship.  What  then  is  requisite  to  make  one's  corre- 
spondence valuable  ?  I  answer,  sound  sense. — Nothing  more 
is  requisite ;  as  to  the  style,  one  may  very  readily  excuse  its 
faults,  if  repaid  by  the  sentiments.  You  have  better  natural 
abilities  than  many  youth,  but  it  is  with  regret  I  see  that  you 
will  not  give  yourself  the  trouble  of  writing  a  good  letter. 
There  is  hardly  any  species  of  composition  (in  my  opinion) 
easier  than  the  epistolary;  but,  my  friend,  you  never  found 
any  art,  however  trivial,  that  did  not  require  some  application 
at  first.  For,  if  an  artist,  instead  of  endeavouring  to  surmount 
the  difficulties  which  presented  themselves,  were  to  rest  con- 
tented with  mediocrity,  how  could  he  possibly  ever  arrive  at 
excellence  ?  Thus  'tis  with  you ;  instead  of  that  indefatigable 
perseverance  which,  in  other  cases,  is  a  leading  trait  in  your 
character,  I  hear  you  say,  "  Ah,  my  poor  brains  were  never 
formed  for  letter-writing — I  shall  never  write  a  good  letter," 
or  some  such  phrases ;  and  thus,  by  despairing  of  ever  arriving 
at  excellence,  you  render  yourself  hardly  tolerable.  You  may, 
perhaps,  think  tins  art  beneath  your  notice,  or  unworthy  of 
your  pains;  if  so,  you  are  assuredly  mistaken,  for  there  is 
hardly  anything  which  would  contribute  more  to  the  advance- 
ment of  a  young  man,  or  winch  is  more  engaging. 

You  read,  I  believe,  a  good  deal ;  nothing  could  be  more 
acceptable  to  me,  or  more  improving  to  you,  than  making  a 
part  of  your  letters  to  consist  of  your  sentiments,  and  opinion 
of  the  books  you  peruse ;  you  have  no  idea  how  beneficial  this 
would  be  to  yourself;  and  that  you  are  able  to  do  it,  I  am 
certain.  One  of  the  greatest  impediments  to  good  writing,  is 
the  thinking  too  much  before  you  note  down.  This,  I  think, 
you  are  not  entirely  free  from.  I  hope,  that  by  always  writing 
the  first  idea  that  presents  itself,  you  will  soon  conquer  it ;  my 
letters  are  always  the  rough  first  draft ;  of  course  there  are 
many  alterations  ;  these  you  will  excuse. 

I  have  written  most  of  my  letters  to  you  in  so  negligent  a 

E 


50 


LETTERS  OF 


manner,  that,  if  you  would  have  the  goodness  to  return  al] 
you  have  preserved  sealed,  I  mil  peruse  them,  and  all  sen- 
tences worth  preserving  I  will  extract,  and  return. 

You  observe,  in  your  last,  that  your  letters  are  read  with 
contempt. — Do  you  speak  as  you  think  ? 

You  had  better  write  again  to  Mr.  .    Between  friends 

the  common  forms  of  the  world,  in  writing  letter  for  letter, 
need  not  be  observed ;  but  never  write  three  without  receiving 
one  in  return,  because  in  that  case  they  must  be  thought 
unworthy  of  answer. 

We  have  been  so  busy  lately,  I  could  not  answer  yours 
sooner. — Once  a  month  suppose  we  write  to  each  other.  If 
you  ever  find  that  my  correspondence  is  not  worth  the  trouble 
of  carrying  on,  inform  me  of  it,  and  it  shall  cease. 

#         *         *  * 

P.S.  If  any  expression  in  this  be  too  harsh,  excuse  it. — 1 
am  not  in  an  ill  humour,  recollect. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  11th  April,  1S01. 

Deah  Neville, 

On  opening  yours,  I  was  highly  pleased  to  find  two  and  a 
half  sheets  of  paper,  and  nothing  could  exceed  my  ioy  at  so 
apparently  long  a  letter ;  but,  upon  finding  it  consisted  of  sides 
filled  after  the  rate  of  five  words  in  a  line,  and  nine  lines  in  a 
page,  I  could  not  conceal  my  chagrin ;  and  I  am  sure  I  may 
very  modestly  say,  that  one  of  my  ordinary  pages  contains 
three  of  yours ;  if  you  knew  half  the  pleasure  I  feel  in  your 
correspondence,  I  am  confident  you  would  lengthen  your 
letters.  You  tantalize  me  with  the  hopes  of  a  prolific  harvest, 
and  I  find  alas  !  a  thin  crop,  whose  goodness  only  makes  me 
lament  its  scantiness. 

*         *         «  «• 
I  had  almost  forgot  to  tell  yoa  that  I  have  obtained  the  first 
prize  (of  a  pair  of  Adams's  twelve-inch  globes,  value  three 
guineas)  in  the  first  class  of  the  Monthly  Preceptor.  The 


HEXJIY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


51 


subject  was  fin  imaginary  tour  from  London  to  Edinburgh.  It 
is  printed  consequently,  and  I  shall  send  it  to  you  the  very  first 
opportunity.  The  proposals  stated  that  the  essay  was  not  to 
exceed  three  pages  when  printed — mine  takes  seven;  therefore 
I  am  astonished  they  gave  me  the  first  prize.  There  was  a$ 
extraordinary  number  of  candidates,  and  they  said  they  neve? 
had  a  greater  number  of  excellent  ones,  and  they  wished  they 
could  have  given  thirty  prizes.    You  will  find  it  (in  a  letter) 

addressed  to  N  ,  meaning  yourself. 

#  *  *  * 
Warton  is  a  poet  from  whom  I  have  derived  the  most  exqui- 
site pleasure  and  gratification.  He  abounds  in  sublimity  and 
loftiness  of  thought  as  well  as  expression.  His  Pleasures  of 
Melancholy  is  truly  a  sublime  poem.  The  following  passage  I. 
particularly  admire : — 

"  Nor  undelightful  in  the  solemn  noon 
Of  night,  where,  haply  wakeful  from  my  couch 
I  start,  lo,  all  is  motionless  around! 
Roars  not  the  rushing  wind;  the  sous  of  men, 
And  every  beast,  in  mute  oblivion  lie; 
All  Nature's  liush'd  in  silence,  and  in  sleep. 
Oh,  then,  how  fearful  is  it  to  reflect, 
That  through  the  still  globe's  awful  solitude 
No  being  wakes  but  me  !" 

How  affecting  are  the  latter  lines  !  it  is  impossible  to  with- 
stand the  emotions  which  rise  on  its  perusal,  and  I  envy  not 
that  man  his  insensibility  who  can  read  them  with  apathy 
Many  of  the  pieces  of  the  Bible  are  written  in  this  sublime 
manner:  one  psalm,  I  think  the  18th,  is  a  perfect  masterpiece,, 
and  has  been  imitated  by  many  poets.  Compare  these,,  cr  te 
above  quoted  from  Warton,  and  the  finest  piece  in  Pope,  and< 
then  judge  of  the  rank  which  he  holds  as  a  poet.  Another 
instance  of  the  sublime  in  poetry,  I  will  give  you  from  Aken- 
side's  admirable  Pleasures  of  Imagination,  where,  speaking  of 
the  Soul,  he  says,  she 

"  Rides  on  the  volley' d  lightning"  through  the  heav'ns^. 

And  yoked  with  whirlwinds,  and  the  northern  blast,. 

Sweeps  the  long  tract  of  day." 

*  2 


52 


LETTERS  OF 


Many  of  these  instances  of  sublimity  will  occur  to  you  in 
Thomson. 

James  begs  leave  to  present  you  with.  Bloomfield's  Farmer's 
Boy.  Bloomfield  has  no  grandeur  or  height ;  he  is  a  pastoral 
poet,  and  the  simply  sweet  is  what  you  are  to  expect  from 
him;  nevertheless,  his  descriptions  are  sometimes  little  inferior 
to  Thomson. 

How  pleased  should  I  be,  Neville,  to  have  you  with  us  at 
Nottingham  !  Our  fire-side  would  be  delightful. — I  should 
profit  by  your  sentiments  and  experience,  and  you  possibly 
might  gain  a  little  from  my  small  bookish  knowledge.  But  I 
am  afraid  that  time  will  never  come ;  your  time  of  apprentice- 
ship is  nearly  expired,  and,  in  all  appearance,  the  small  residue 
that  yet  remains  will  be  passed  in  hated  London.  When  you 
are  emancipated,  you  will  have  to  mix  in  the  bustle  of  the 
world,  in  all  probability,  also,  far  from  home ;  so  that  when 
we  have  just  learnt  how  happy  we  might  mutually  make  our- 
selves, we  find  scarcely  a  shadow  of  a  probability  of  ever 
having  the  opportunity.  Well,  well,  it  is  in  vain  to  resist  the 
immutable  decrees  of  fate. 

^Sc  1  i&t  tHi  4p 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  April,  1801  . 

Dsak  Neville, 

As  I  know  you  will  participate  with  me  in  the  pleasure  I 
receive  from  literary  distinctions,  I  hasten  to  inform  you,  that 
my  poetical  Essay  on  Gratitude  is  printed  in  this  month's  Pre- 
ceptor— that  my  Remarks  on  Warton  are  promised  insertion  in 
the  next  month's  Mirror,  and  that  my  Essay  on  Truth  is 
printed  in  the  present  (April)  Monthly  Visitor.  The  Pre- 
ceptor I  shall  not  be  able  to  send  you  until  the  end  of  this 
month.  The  Visitor  you  will  herewith  receive.  The  next 
month's  Mirror  I  shall  consequently  buy.  I  wish  it  were 
not  quite  so  expensive,  as  I  think  it  a  very  good  work. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


S3 


Benjamin  Thomson,  Capel  Lolft,  Esq.,  Robert  Bloomfield, 
Thomas  Dermody,  Mr.  Gilchrist,  under  the  signature  of 
Octavius,  Mrs.  Biore,  a  noted  female  writer,  under  the  signa- 
ture of  Q.Z.,  are  correspondents ;  and  the  editors  are  not  only 
men  of  genius  and  taste,  but  of  the  greatest  respectability. 
As  I  shall  now  be  a  regular  contributor  to  this  work,  and  as  I 
think  it  contains  much  good  matter,  I  have  half  an  inclination 
to  take  it  in,  more  especially  as  you  have  got  the  prior 
volumes  ;  but  in  the  present  state  of  my  finances,  it  will  not  be 
prudent,  unless  you  accede  to  a  proposal  which,  I  think,  will  be 
gratifying  to  yourself.  It  is  to  take  it  hi  conjunction  with  me, 
by  which  means  we  shall  both  have  the  same  enjoyment  of  it, 
with  half  the  expense.  It  is  of  little  consequence  who  takes 
them,  only  he  must  be  expeditious  in  reading  them.  If  you. 
have  any  the  least  objection  to  this  scheme,  do  not  suppress  it 
through  any  regard  to  punctilio.  I  have  only  proposed  it,  and 
it  is  not  very  material  whether  you  concur  or  not ;  only  exer- 
cise your  own  discretion. 

You  say,  (speaking  of  a  passage  concerning  you  in  my  last,) 
"  this  is  compliment  sufficient ;  the  rest  must  be  flattery."— 
Do  you  seriously,  Neville,  think  me  capable  of  flattery  ? 

As  you  well  know  I  am  a  carping,  critical  little  dog,  you 
will  not  be  surprised  at  my  observing  that  there  is  one  figure 
in  your  last  that  savours  rather  of  the  ludicrous,  when  you  talk 
of  a  "  butterfly  hopping  from  book  to  book." 

As  to  the  something  that  I  am  to  find  out,  that  is  a  perpetual 
bar  to  your  progress  in  knowledge,  &c,  I  am  inclined  to  think, 
Doctor,  it  is  merely  conceit.  You  fancy  that  you  cannot  write 
a  letter — you  dread  its  idea ;  you  conceive  that  a  work  of  four 
volumes  would  require  the  labours  of  a  life  to  read  through ; 
you  persuade  yourself  that  you  cannot  retain  what  you  read, 
and  in  despair  do  not  attempt  to  conquer  these  visionary 
impediments.  Confidence,  Neville,  in  one's  own  abilities,  is  a 
sure  forerunner  (in  similar  circumstances  with  the  present)  of 
success.  As  an  illustration  of  this,  I  beg  leave  to  adduce  the 
example  of  Pope,  who  had  so  high  a  sense,  in  Lis  youth,  or 
rather  in  Ids  infancy,  of  his  own  capacity,  that  there  wa3 


LETTERS  OF 


nothing  of  which,  when  once  sec  about  it,  he  did  not  think 
himself  capable;  and,  as  Dr.  Johnson  has  observed,  the  natural 
consequence  of  this  minute  perception  of  his  own  powers,  was 
his  arriving  at  as  high  a  pitch  of  perfection  as  it  was  possible 
for  a  man,  with  his  few  natural  endowments,  to  attain. 
*  p  H  * 

When  you  wish  to  read  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets,  scud 
for  them :  I  have  lately  purchased  them.  I  have  now  a  large 
library.  My  mother  allows  me  ten  pounds  per  annum  for 
clothes.  I  always  dress  in  a  respectable,  and  even  in  a  genteel 
manner,  yet  I  can  make  much  less  than  this  sum  suffice.  My 
lather  generally  gives  me  one  coat  in  a  year,  and  I  make  two 
serve.  I  then  receive  one  guinea  per  annum  for  keeping  my 
mother's  books;  one  guinea  per  annum  pocket  money;  and  by 
other  means  I  gain,  perhaps,  two  guineas  more  per  annum :  so 
that  I  have  been  able  to  buy  pretty  many;  and  when  you 
come  home,  you  will  find  me  in  my  stud}',  surrounded  with 
books  and  papers.  I  am  a  perfect  garreteer  :  great  part  of  my 
library,  however,  consists  of  professional  books.  Have  you 
read  Burke  on  the  Sublime  ?  Knox's  Winter  Evening  ? — Can 
lend  them  to  you,  if  you  have  not. 

Really,  Neville,  were  you  fully  sensible  how  much  my  time 
is  occupied,  principally  about  my  profession,  as  a  primary  con- 
cern, and  in  the  hours  necessarily  set  apart  to  relaxation  on 
polite  literature,  to  which,  as  a  hobby-horse,  I  am  very  desirous 
of  paying  some  attention,  you  would  not  be  angry  at  my  delay 
in  writing,  or  my  short  letters.  It  is  always  with  joy  that  I 
devote  a  leisure  hour  to  you,  as  it  affords  you  gratification ; 
and  rest  assured,  that  I  always  participate  in  your  pleasure, 
and  poignantly  feel  every  adverse  incident  which  causes  you 
pain. 

Permit  me,  however,  again  to  observe,  that  one  of  my  sheets 
is  equal  to  two  of  yours ;  and  I  cannot  but  consider  this  as  a 
kind  of  fallacious  deception,  for  you  always  think  that  your 
letters  contain  so  much  more  than  mine,  because  they  occupy 
more  room.  If  you  were  to  count  the  words,  the  difference 
would  not  be  so  great.  You  must  also  take  in  account  the 
unsealed  communications  to  periodical  works,  which  I  now 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


55 


reckon  a  part  of  my  letter,  and  therefore  you  must  excuse  my 
concluding,  on  the  first  sheet,  by  assuring  you  that  I  still 
remain 

Your  friend  and  brother, 

H.  K.  White. 

P.S.  A  postscript  is  a  natural  appendage  to  a  letter. — I 
only  have  to  say,  that  positively  you  shall  receive  a  six  or 
eight  sheet  letter,  and  that  written  legibly,  ere  long. 


TO  MR.  BOOTH. 

Nottingham,  August  12th,  1801. 

Dear  Sir, 

I  must  beg  leave  to  apologize  for  not  having  returned  my 
sincere  acknowledgments  to  yourself  and  Mrs.  Booth,  for  your 
very  acceptable  presents,  at  an  earlier  period.  I  now,  how- 
ever, acquit  myself  of  the  duty,  and  assure  you,  that  from  both 
of  the  works  I  have  received  much  gratification,  and  edifica- 
tion, but  more  particularly  from  one  on  the  Trinity,*  a  pro- 
duction which  displays  much  erudition,  and  a  very  laudable 
zeal  for  the  true  interests  of  religion.  Religious  polemics, 
indeed,  have  seldom  formed  a  part  of  my  studies;  though, 
whenever  I  happened  accidentally  to  turn  my  thoughts  to  the 
subject  of  the  Protestant  doctrine  of  the  Godhead,  and  com- 
pared it  with  Arian  and  Socinian,  many  doubts  interfered,  and 
1  even  began  to  think  that  the  more  nicely  the  subject  was 
investigated,  the  more  perplexed  it  would  appear,  and  was  on 
the  point  of  forming  a  resolution  to  go  to  heaven  in  my  own 
way,  without  meddling  or  involving  myself  in  the  inextricable 
labyrinth  of  controversial  dispute,  when  I  received  and  perused 
this  excellent  treatise,  which  finally  cleared  up  the  mists  which 
my  ignorance  had  conjured  around  me,  and  clearly  pointed  out 
the  real  truth.  The  intention  of  the  author  precluded  the  pos- 
sibility of  his  employing  the  ornaments  and  graces  of  composi- 
tion in  his  work ;  for  as  it  was  meant  for  all  ranks,  it  must  be 

*  Jones  on  the  Trinity. 


S8 


LETTERS  OP 


suited  to  all  capacities ;  but  the  arguments  are  drawn  up  and 
arranged  in  so  forcible  and  perspicuous  a  manner,  and  are 
written  so  plainly,  yet  pleasingly,  that  I  was  absolutely  charmed 
with  them. 

The  Evangelical  Clergyman  is  a  very  smart  piece ;  the 
author  possesses  a  considerable  portion  of  sarcastic  spirit,  and 
no  little  acrimony,  perhaps  not  consistent  with  the  christian 
meekness  which  he  wishes  to  inculcate.  I  consider,  however, 
that  London  would  not  have  many  graces,  or  attractions,  if 
despoiled  of  all  the  amusements  to  which,  in  one  part  of  his 
pamphlet,  he  objects.  In  theory,  the  destruction  of  these 
vicious  recreations  is  very  fine ;  but  in  practice,  I  am  afraid 
he  would  find  it  quite  different.  *  *  *  The  other 
parts  of  this  piece  are  very  just,  and  such  as  every  person 
must  subscribe  to.    Clergymen,  in  general,  are  not  what  they 

ought  to  be;  and  I  think  Mr.   has  pointed  out  their 

duties  very  accurately.  But  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  deemed 
impertinent  and  tiresome,  in  troubling  you  with  ill-timed  and 
obtrusive  opinions,  and  beg  leave,  therefore,  to  conclude,  with 
respects  to  yourself  and  Mrs.  Booth,  by  assuring  you  that  I 
am,  according  to  custom  from  time  immemorial,  and  in  due 
form, 

Dear  Sir, 
Your  obliged  humble  Servant, 

Henry  Kiiike  White. 


TO  MR.  C HARLE S WORT H . 

Nottingham,  1S02. 

Dear  Sik, 

I  am  sure  you  will  excuse  me  for  not  having  immediately 
answered  your  letter,  when  I  relate  the  cause. — I  was  prepar- 
ing, at  that  moment  when  I  received  yours,  a  volume  of  poems 
for  the  press,  which  I  shall  shortly  see  published.  I  finished 
and  sent  them  off  for  London  last  night ;  and  I  now  hasten 
to  acknowledge  your  letter. 

I  am  very  happy  that  any  poem  of  mine  should  meet  with 


HENHY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


57 


your  approbation.  I  prefer  the  cool  and  dispassionate  praise 
of  the  discriminate  few,  to  the  boisterons  applause  of  the 
croivd. 

Our  prolessions  neither  of  them  leave  much  leisure  for  the 
study  of  polite  literature;  I  myself  have,  however,  coined 
time,  if  you  will  allow  the  metaphor ;  and  while  I  have  made 
such  a  proficiency  in  the  law,  as  has  ensured  me  the  regard  of 
my  governors,  I  have  paid  my  secret  devoirs  to  the  ladies  of 
Helicon.  My  draughts  at  the  "  fountain  Arethuse,"  it  is  true, 
have  been  principally  made  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  even 
the  guardian  nymphs  of  the  well  may  be  supposed  to  have 
slept ;  they  are,  consequently,  stolen  and  forced.  I  do  not  see 
anything  in  the  confinement  of  our  situations,  in  the  meantime, 
which  should  separate  congenial  minds.  A  literary  acquaint- 
ance is,  to  me,  always  valuable ;  and  &  friend,  whether  lettered 
or  unlettered,  is  highly  worth  cultivation.  I  hope  we  shall 
both  of  us  have  enough  leisure  to  keep  up  an  intimacy,  which 
began  very  agreeably  for  me,  and  has  been  suffered  to  decay 
with  regret. 

I  am  not  able  to  do  justice  to  your  unfortunate  friend  Gill , 
I  knew  him  only  superficially,  and  yet  I  saw  enough  of  his- 
unassuming  modesty,  and  simplicity  of  manners,  to  feel  a  con- 
viction that  he  had  a  valuable  heart.  The  verses  on  the  other 
side  are  perhaps  beneath  mediocrity ;  they  are,  sincerely,  the 
work  of  thirty  minutes  this  morning,  and  I  send  them  to  you 
with  all  their  imperfections  on  their  head. 

Perhaps  they  will  have  sufficient  merit  for  the  Nottingham, 
paper ;  at  least  their  locality  will  shield  them  a  little  in  that 
situation,  and  give  them  an  interest  they  do  not  otherwise 
possess. 

Do  you  think  calling  the  Naiads  of  the  fountains  "  Nymphs 
of  Pajon"  is  an  allowable  liberty  ?  The  allusion  is  to  their 
healthy  and  bracing  qualities. 

The  last  line  of  the  seventh  stanza  contains  an  apparent 
pleonasm,  to  say  no  worse  of  it,  and  yet  it  was  not  written  as 
such.  The  idea  was  from  the  shriek  of  Death  (personified), 
and  the  scream  of  the  dying  man. 


68  LETTEllS  OP 


ELEGY 

Occasioned  by  the  Death  of  Mr.  Gill,  who  was  drowned  in  the 
river  Trent,  while  bathing,  9th  August,  1802. 

I. 

He  sunk — th'  impetuous  river  roll'd  along, 
The  sullen  wave  betray5 d  his  dying  breath  ;* 

And  rising  sad  the  rustling  sedge  among, 

The  gale  of  evening  touch' d  the  cords  of  death. 

II. 

Nymph  of  the  Trent !  why  didst  not  thou  appear 
£o  snatch  the  victim  from  thy  felon  wave  ? 

Alas  !  too  late  thou  cam'st  to  embalm  his  bier, 
And  deck  with  water-flags  his  early  grave. 

in. 

Triumphant,  riding  o'er  its  tumid  prey, 
Rolls  the  red  stream  in  sanguinary  pride  ; 

While  anxious  crowds,  in  vain,  expectant  stay, 
And  ask  the  swoln  corse  from  the  murdering  tide. 

IV. 

The  stealing  tear-drop  stagnates  in  the  eye, 
The  sudden  sigh  by  friendship's  bosom  proved, 

I  mark  them  rise — I  mark  the  gen'ral  sigh : 
Unhappy  youth !  and  wert  thou  so  beloved  ? 

v. 

On  thee,  as  lone  I  trace  the  Trent's  green  brink, 
When  the  dim  twilight  slumbers  on  the  glade ; 

On  thee  my  thoughts  shall  dwell,  nor  Fancy  shrink 
To  hold  mysterious  converse  with  thy  shade. 

*  This  line  may  appear  somewhat  obscure.  It  alludes  to  the  last 
bubbling  of  the  water,  after  a  person  has  sunk,  caused  by  tbe  final 
expiration  of  the  air  from  the  lungs  ;  inhalation,  by  introducing  the 

water,  produces  suffocation. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


59 


VI. 

Of  thee,  as  early  I,  with  vagrant  feet, 

Hail  the  grey-sandal' d  morn  in  Colwick's  vale, 

Of  thee  my  sylvan  reed  shall  warble  sweet, 
And  wild  wood  echoes  shall  repeat  the  tale. 

VII. 

And  oh !  ye  nymphs  of  Paeon !  who  preside 
O'er  running  rill  and  salutary  stream, 

Guard  ye  in  future  well  the  Halcyon  tide 
Erom  the  rude  Death-shriek  and  the  dying  scream. 


TO  MR.  M.  HARRIS. 

Nottingham,  2&th  Marcb,  1802. 

Dear  Sir, 

I  was  greatly  surprised  at  your  lettei  of  the  twenty- 
seventh,  for  I  had  in  reality  given  you  up  for  lost.  I  should 
long  since  have  written  to  you,  in  answer  to  your  note  about 
the  Lexicon,  but  was  perfectly  ignorant  of  the  place  of  your 
abode.  Eor  anything  I  knew  to  the  contrary,  you  might  have 
been  quaffing  the  juice  of  the  cocoa-nut  under  the  broad 
bananes  of  the  Indies,  breathing  the  invigorating  air  of  liberty 
in  the  broad  savannahs  of  America,  or  sweltering  beneath  the 
line.  I  had,  however,  even  then  some  sort  of  a  presentiment 
that  you  were  not  quite  so  far  removed  from  our  foggy  atmo- 
sphere, but  not  enough  to  prevent  me  from  being  astonished 
at  finding  you  so  near  us  as  Leicester.  You  tell  me  I  must 
not  ask  you  what  you  are  doing;  I  am  nevertheless  very 
anxious  to  know ;  not  so  much,  I  flatter  myself,  from  any  in- 
quisitiveness  of  spirit,  as  from  a  desire  to  hear  of  your  welfare. 
Why,  my  friend,  did  you  leave  us  ?  possessing  as  you  did,  if 
not  exactly  the  otium  cum  dignitate,  something  very  like  it ; 
having  every  comfort  and  enjoyment  at  your  call,  which  the 
philosophical  mind  can  find  pleasure  in ;  and  above  all,  blessed 
with  that  easy  competence,  that  sweet  independence,  which 


CO 


LETTERS  OP 


renders  the  fatigues  of  employment  supportable,  and  even 
agreeable. 

Quod  satis  est,  cid  contingit,  nihil  amjpliks  ojptet. 

Certainly,  to  a  man  of  your  disposition,  no  situation  could 
have  more  charms  than  yours  at  the  Trent  Bridge.  I  regard 
those  hours  which  I  spent  with  you  there,  while  the  moon- 
beam was  trembling  on  the  waters,  and  the  harp  of  Eolns  was 
giving  us  its  divine  swells  and  dying  falls,  as  the  most  sweetly 
tranquil  of  my  life. 

#         #         #  * 

I  have  applied  myself  rather  more  to  Latin  than  to  Greek 
since  you  left  us.  I  make  use  of  Schrevelius's  Lexicon,  but 
shall  be  obliged  to  you  to  buy  me  the  Parkhurst,  at  any 
decent  price,  if  possible.  Can  you  tell  me  any  mode  of 
joining  the  letters  in  writing  in  the  Greek  character ;  I  find 
it  difficult  enough.  The  following  is  my  manner;  is  it  right  P* 

I  can  hardly  flatter  myself  that  you  will  give  yourself  the 
trouble  of  corresponding  with  me,  as  all  the  advantage  would 
be  on  my  side,  without  anything  to  compensate  for  it  on 
yours  ;  but — but  in  fact  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  further, — 
only,  that  whenever  you  shall  think  me  worthy  of  a  letter,  I 
shall  be  highly  gratified. 

-»  *  *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  10th  February,  1803. 

Deak  Neville, 

*         *         *  * 
Now  with  regard  to  the  subscription,  I  shall  certainly 
agree  to  this  mode  of  publication,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you  for  what  you  say  regarding  it.    But  we  must  wait 
(except  among  your  private  friends)  until  we  get  Lady  Derby's 

*  The  few  Greek  words  which  followed  were  beautifully  written,. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


61 


answer,  and  Proposals  are  printed.  I  think  we  shall  readily 
raise  350,  though  Nottingham  is  the  worst  place  imaginable 
for  any  thing  of  that  kind.  Even  envy  will  interfere.  I  shall 
send  proposals  to  Chesterfield,  to  my  uncle ;  to  Sheffield,  to 
Miss  Gales's  (booksellers),  whom  I  saw  at  Chesterfield,  and 

■who  have  lately  sent  me  a  pressing  invitation  to  S  , 

accompanied  with  a  desire  of  Montgomery  (the  Poet  Paul 
Positive),  to  see  me;  to  Newark — Allen  and  Wright,  my 
friends  there  (the  latter  a  bookseller);  and  I  think  if  they 
were  stitched  up  with  all  the  Monthly  Mirrors,  it  would 
promote  the  subscription.  You  are  not  to  take  any  money ; 
that  would  be  absolute  begging:  the  subscribers  put  down 
their  names,  and  pay  the  bookseller  of  whom  they  get  the 
copy. 

*         *         *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  10th  March,  1803. 

Deaii  Neville, 

I  am  cured  of  patronage  hunting ;  I  will  not  expose  my- 
self to  any  more  similar  mortifications,  but  shall  thank  you  to 
send  the  manuscripts  to  Mr.  Hill,  with  a  note,  stating  that  I 
had  written  to  the  Duchess,  and  receiving  no  answer,  you  had 
called,  and  been  informed  by  a  servant,  that  hi  all  probability 
she  never  read  the  letter,  as  she  desired  to  know  what  the 
book  was  left  there  for ;  that  you  had,  in  consequence,  come 
away  with  the  manuscripts,  under  a  conviction  that  your 
brother  would  give  her  Grace  no  further  trouble.  State  also 
that  you  have  received  a  letter  from  me,  expressing  a  desire 
that  the  publication  might  be  proceeded  on,  without  any 
further  solicitation  or  delay. 

A  name  of  eminence  was,  nevertheless,  a  most  desirable 
thing  to  me  in  Nottingham,  as  it  would  attach  more  respect- 
ability to  the  subscription ;  but  I  see  all  further  efforts  will 
only  be  productive  of  procrastination. 

#         *         *  a 


62 


LETTERS  OP 


I  think  you  may  as  well  begin  to  obtain  subscribers  amongst 
friends  now,  though  the  proposals  may  not  be  issued  at 
present. 

I  have  got  twenty-three,  without  making  the  affair  public 
ai;  all,  among  my  immediate  acquaintance :  and  mind,  I  neither 
solicit  nor  draw  the  conversation  to  the  subject,  but  a  rumour 
has  got  abroad,  and  has  been  received  more  favourably  than  I 
expected. 

*         *         *  « 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  2nd  May,  IS03. 

Dear  Neville, 

I  have  just  gained  a  piece  of  intelligence  which  much 
vexes  me.  Robinson,  the  bookseller,  knows  that  I  have 
written  to  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  and  he  took  the  liberty 

(certainly  an  unwarrantable  one)  to  mention  it  to   , 

whose  — —  was  inscribed  to  her  Grace.     Mr.    said, 

that  unless  I  had  got  a  friend  to  deliver  the  poems,  per- 
sonalty, into  the  hands  of  her  Grace,  it  was  a  hundred  to  one 
that  they  ever  reached  her ;  that  the  porter  at  the  lodge  burrs 
scores  of  letters  and  packets  a  day,  and  particularly  all  letters 
by  the  twopenny  post  are  consigned  to  the  fire.  The  rest,  if 
they  are  not  particularly  excepted,  as  inscribed  with  a  pass 
name  on  the  back,  are  thrown  into  a  closet,  \o  be  reclaimed 
at  leisure.  He  said,  the  way  he  proceeded  was  this  : — He  left 
his  card  at  her  door,  and  the  next  day  called,  and  was  ad- 
mitted. Her  Grace  then  gave  him  permission,  with  this  pro- 
viso, that  the  dedication  was  as  short  as  possible,  and  con- 
tained no  compliments,  as  the  Duke  had  taken  offence  at  s6*me 
such  compliments. 

Now,  as  my  letter  was  delivered  by  you  at  the  door.  I  have 
scarcely  a  doubt  that  it  is  classed  with  the  penny-post  letters, 
and  burnt.  If  my  manuscripts  are  destroyed  I  am  ruined,  but 
I  hope  it  is  otherwise.  However,  I  think  you  had  better  call 
immediately,  and  ask  for  a  parcel  of  Mr.  H.  White,  of  Not 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


63 


tingliam.  They  will,  of  course,  say  they  have  no  such  parcel ; 
and  then,  perhaps,  yo.u  may  have  an  opportunity  of  asking 
whether  a  packet,  left  in  the  manner  you  left  mine,  had  any 
probability  of  reaching  the  Duchess.  If  you  obtain  no  satis- 
faction, there  remains  no  way  of  re-obtaining  my  volume  but 
this  (and  I  fear  you  will  never  agree  to  put  it  in  execution) : 
to  leave  a  card,  with  your  name  inscribed  (Mr.  J.  N.  White), 
and  call  the  next  day.  If  you  are  admitted,  you  will  state  to 
her  Grace  the  purport  of  your  errand,  ask  for  a  volume  of 
poems  in  manuscript,  sent  by  your  brother  a  fortnight  ago, 
with  a  letter  (say  from  Nottingham,  as  a  reason  why  I  do  not 
wait  on  her),  requesting  permission  of  dedication  to  her ;  and 
that  as  you  found  her  Grace  had  not  received  them,  you  had 
taken  the  liberty,  after  many  inquiries  at  her  door,  to  request 
to  see  her  in  person. 

I  hope  your  diffidence  will  not  be  put  to  tins  test;  I  hope 
you  will  get  the  poems  without  trouble;  as  for  begging 
patronage,  I  am  tired  to  the  soul  of  it,  and  shall  give  it  up. 
*•         *         *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  1803. 

Dear  Neville, 

I  write  you,  with  intelligence  of  a  very  important  nature. 
You  some  time  ago  had  an  intimation  of  my  wish  to  enter  tbe 
church,  in  case  my  deafness  was  not  removed.    About  a  week 

ago  I  became  acquainted  with  the  He  v.  ,  late  of  St. 

John's  College,  Cambridge,  and  in  consequence  of  what  he  has 
said,  I  have  finally  determined  to  enter  myself  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Cambridge,  with  the  approbation  of  all  my  friends. 

Mr.  says  that  it  is  a  shame  to  keep  me  away  from 

the  University,  and  that  circumstances  are  of  no  importance. 
He  says,  that  if  I  am  entered  of  Trinity,  where  there  are  all 
select  men,  I  must  necessarily,  with  my  abilities,  arrive  at 
preferment.  He  says  he  will  be  answerable  that  the  first  year 
I  shall  obtain  a  Scholarship,  or  an  exhibition  adequate  to  my 


64 


*.fn-TERS  OP 


support.  That  by  the  time  I  have  been  of  five  years'  standing, 
I  shall  of  course  become  a  Eellow,  (2001.  a  year) ;  that  with 
the  Fellowship,  I  may  hold  a  Professorship,  (500£.  per  annum); 
and  a  living  or  curacy  until  better  preferments  occur.  He 
says,  that  there  is  no  uncertainty  in  the  church  to  a  truly 
pious  man,  and  a  man  of  abilities  and  eloquence.  That  those 
who  are  unprovided  for,  are  generally  men  who,  having  no 
interest,  are  idle  drones,  or  dissolute  debauchees,  and  therefore 
ought  not  to  expect  advancement.  That  a  poet,  in  particular, 
lias  the  means  of  patronage  in  his  pen ;  and  that,  in  one  word, 
no  young  man  can  enter  the  church  (except  he  be  of  family) 
with  better  prospects  than  myself.  On  the  other  hand,  Mr. 
Enfield  has  himself  often  observed,  that  my  deafness  will  be 
an  insuperable  obstacle  to  me  as  an  attorney,  and  has  said  how 
unfortunate  a  thing  it  was  for  me  not  to  have  known  of  the 
growing  defect  in  my  organs  of  hearing,  before  I  articled  my* 
self.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  conceive  I  should  be 
culpable  did  I  let  go  so  good  an  opportunity  as  now  occurs. 
Mr.  — —  will  mite  to  all  his  University  friends,  and  he 
says  there  is  so  much  liberality  there,  that  they  will  never  let  a 
young  man  of  talents  be  turned  from  his  studies  by  want  of  cash. 

Yesterday  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Enfield,  and  he,  with  unexampled 
generosity,  said  that  he  saw  clearly  what  an  advantageous 
thing  it  would  be  for  me ;  that  I  must  be  sensible  what  a  great 
loss  he  and  Mr.  Col  lliam  would  suffer ;  but  that  he  was  cer- 
tain neither  he,  nor  Mr.  C  ,  could  oppose  themselves 

to  anything  which  was  so  much  to  my  advantage.    When  Mr. 

C  returns  from  London,  the  matter  will  be  settled  with 

my  mother. 

All  my  mother's  friends  seem  to  think  this  an  excellent 
thing  for  me,  and  will  do  all  in  their  power  to  forward  me. 

Now  we  come  to  a  very  important  part  of  the  business — 
the  means.  I  shall  go  with  my  friend  Robert,  in  the  capacity 
of  Sizar,  to  whom  the  expense  is  not  more  than  (SOI.  per 
annum.  Towards  this  sum  my  mother  mil  contribute  20*., 
being  what  she  allows  me  now  for  clothes ;  (by  this  means  she 
will  save  my  board);  and,  for  the  residue,  I  must  trust  to 
getting  a  Scholarship,  or  Chapel  Clerk's  post.  But,  in  order  to 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE.  65 

make  tins  residue  certain,  I  shall,  at  the  expiration  of  tweke 
months,  publish  a  wcond  volume  of  poems  by  subscription. 

My  friend,  Mr.  -_,  says,  that  so  far 'as  his  means  wiL 
go,  I  shall  never  ask  assistance  in  vain.  He  has  but  » 
small  income,  though  of  gre,t  family.  He  has  just  lost  two 
rectories  by  scruples  of  conscience,  and  now  preaches  at  — 
lor  801  a  year.  The  Mowing  letter  he  put  into  my  hand  as 
I  was  leaving  him,  after  having  breakfasted  with  him  yes. 
terday  He  put  it  into  my  hand,  and  requested  me  not  to 
r,ad  it  until  I  got  home.  It  is  a  breach  of  trust  letting  you 
see  it,  but  I  wish  you  to  know  his  character. 
"My  dear  Sir, 

"I  sincerely  wish  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  render  you  any 
essential  service,  to  facilitate  your  passing  through  College 

enefoVsedmh  5"™  *"  ^  ^  **  ^  ~  «  "he 
enclosed  be  of  any  service,  either  to  purchase  books,  or  for 

other  pocket  expenses,  I  request  your  acceptance  of  it;  but 

must  entreat  you  not  to  notice  it,  either  to  myself,  or  any 

hvmg  creature.  I  pray  God  that  you  may  employee  talents 

that  he  has  glven  you,  to  his  glory,  and  to  the  benefit  of  his 

people.    I  have  great  fears  for  you ;  the  temptations  of  Col. 

lege  are  great.    Believe  me 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 


The  enclosure  was  21.  2s.  I  could  not  refuse  what  was  so 
dehcatefy  offered,  though  I  was  sorry  to  take  it :  he  is  truly 
an  amiable  character.  J 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
Dear  Neville,  No.tmgham,   1803. 

thPrlvYWtmayTTfVe  With  What  em°ti0ns  1  read  y™1'  bro- 
therly letter;  I  feel  a  very  great  degree  of  aversion  to  bur- 

themng  my  family  any  more  than  I  have  done,  and  now  do; 

Vut  an  offer  so  delicate  and  affectionate  I  cannot  refuse;  and  if 


€6 


LETTERS  OF 


I  should  need  pecuniary  assistance,  which  I  am  in  hopes  I 
shall  not,  at  least  after  the  first  year,  I  shall,  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  apply  to  my  brother  Neville. 

My  College  schemes  yet  remain  in  a  considerable  degree  of 
uncertainty ;  I  am  very  uneasy  thereabouts.  I  have  not  heard 
from  Cambridge  yet,  and  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  there  be 
a  vacant  Sizarship  in  Trinity;  so  that  I  can  write  you  no 
further  information  on  this  head. 

*         *         *  # 

I  suppose  you  have  seen  my  review  in  this  month's  Mirror, 
and  that  I  need  not  comment  upon  it ;  such  a  review  I  neither 
expected,  nor  in  fact  deserve. 

I  shall  not  send  up  the  Mirror  this  month,  on  this  account, 
as  it  is  policy  to  keep  it ;  and  you  have,  no  doubt,  received 
one  from  Mr.  Hill. 

The  errors  in  the  Greek  quotation  I  perceived  the  moment 
I  got  down  the  first  copies,  and  altered  them,  in  most,  with 
the  pen ;  they  are  very  unlucky ;  I  have  sent  up  the  copies 
for  the  reviews  myself,  in  order  that  I  might  make  the  correc- 
tion in  them. 

I  have  got  now  to  write  letters  to  all  the  Reviewers,  and 
hope  you  will  excuse  my  abrupt  conclusion  of  this  letter  on 
that  score. 

I  am,  dear  Neville, 

Affectionately  yours, 

H.  K.  White. 

I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Hill  now  the  first  thing ;  I  owe  much 
to  him. 


TO  MR.  B.  HADDOCK. 

Nottingham,  . 

My  deak,  Ben, 

*         *         •»  * 
And  now,  my  dear  Ben,  I  must  confess  your  letter  gave 
me  much  pain ;  there  is  a  tone  of  despondence  in  it  which  I 
must  condemn,  inasmuch  as  it  is  occasioned  by  circumstances 
which  do  not  involve  your  own  exertions,  but  which  are  utterly 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


67 


independent  of  yourself :  if  you  do  your  duty,  why  lament  that 
it  is  not  productive  ?  In  whatever  situation  we  may  be  placed, 
there  is  a  duty  we  owe  to  God  and  religion;  it  is  resigna- 
tion;— nay,  I  may  say  contentment.  All  things  are  in  the 
iiands  of  God ;  and  shall  we  mortals  (if  we  do  not  absolutely 
repine  at  his  dispensations)  be  fretful  under  them  ?  I  do  be- 
seech you,  my  dear  Ben,  summon  up  the  Christian  within  you, 
and,  steeled  with  holy  fortitude,  go  on  your  way  rejoicing! 
There  is  a  species  of  morbid  sensibility  to  which  I  myself  have 
often  been  a  victim,  which  preys  upon  my  heart,  and,  without 
giving  birth  to  one  actively  useful  or  benevolent  feeling,  does 
but  brood  on  selfish  sorrows,  and  magnify  its  own  misfortunes. 
The  evils  of  such  a  sensibility,  I  pray  to  God  you  may  never 
feel,  but  I  would  have  you  beware,  for  it  grows  on  persons  of 
a  certain  disposition  before  they  are  aware  of  it. 

I  am  sorry  my  letter  gave  you  pain,  and  I  trust  my  sus- 
picions were  without  foundation.  Time,  my  dear  Ben,  is  the 
discoverer  of  hearts,  and  I  feel  a  sweet  confidence  that  he  will 
knit  ours  yet  more  closely  together. 

I  believe  my  lot  in  life  is  nearly  fixed ;  a  month  will  tell  me 
whether  I  am  to  be  a  minister  of  Christ,  in  the  established 
church,  or  out.  One  of  the  two  I  am  now  finally  resolved,  if  it 
please  God,  to  be.  I  know  my  own  unwortliiness ;  I  feel  deeply 
that  I  am  far  from  being  that  pure  and  undefiled  temple  of  the 
Holy  Ghost,  that  a  minister  of  the  word  of  life  ought  to  be ; 
yet  still  I  have  an  unaccountable  hope  that  the  Lord  will 
sanctify  my  efforts,  that  he  will  purify  me,  and  that  I  shall 
become  his  devoted  servant. 

I  am  at  present  under  afflictions  and  contentions  of  spirit, 
heavier  than  I  have  yet  ever  experienced.  I  think  at  times,  I  am 
mad,  and  destitute  of  religion.  My  pride  is  not  yet  subdued ; 
the  unfavourable  review  (hi  the  Monthly)  of  my  unhappy 
work,  has  cut  deeper  than  you  could  have  thought;  not  in 
a  literary  point  of  view,  but  as  it  affects  my  respectability. 
It  represents  me  actually  as  a  beggar,  going  about  gathering 
money  to  put  myself  at  college,  when  my  book  is  worthless ; 
and  this  with  every  appearance  of  candour.  They  have  been 
sadly  misinformed  respecting  me :  this  review  goes  before  me 
f  2 


68 


LETTERS  OP 


wherever  I  turn  my  steps ;  it  haunts  me  incessantly,  and  I  am 
persuaded  it  is  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Satan  to  drive  me 
to  distraction.  I  must  leave  Nottingham.  If  the  answer  of 
the  Elland  Society  be  unfavourable,  I  propose  writing  to  the 
Marquis  of  Wellesley,  to  offer  myself  as  a  student  at  the 
academy  he  has  instituted  at  Fort  William,  in  Bengal,  and,  at 
the  proper  age,  to  take  orders  there.  The  missionaries  at  that 
place  have  done  wonders  already,  and  I  should,  I  hope,  be  a 
valuable  labourer  in  the  vineyard.  If  the  Marquis  take  no 
notice  of  my  application,  or  do  not  accede  to  my  proposal,  I 
shall  place  myself  in  some  other  way  of  making  a  meet  prepa- 
ration for  the  holy  office,  either  in  the  Calvinistic  Academy,  or 
in  one  of  the  Scotch  Universities,  where  I  shall  be  able  to  live 
at  scarcely  any  expense.* 

3fc  3fc  ■Sfc  ¥fr 


TO  ME.  R.  A  . 

Nottingham,  18th  April,  1804. 

My  dear  Robert, 

I  have  just  received  your  letter.  Most  fervently  do  I 
return  thanks  to  God  for  this  providential  opening;  it  has 
breathed  new  animation  into  me,  and  my  breast  expands  with 
the  prospect  of  becoming  the  minister  of  Christ  where  I 
most  desired  it ;  but  where  I  almost  feared  all  probability  of 
success  was  nearly  at  an  end.  Indeed,  I  had  begun  to  turn  my 
thoughts  to  the  dissenters,  as  people  of  whom  I  was  destined, 
not  by  choice,  but  necessity,  to  become  the  pastor.  Still, 
although  I  knew  i  should  be  happy  anywhere,  so  that  I  were  a 
profitable  labourer  in  the  vineyard,  I  did,  by  no  means,  feel  that 
calm,  that  indescribable  satisfaction  which  I  do,  when  I  look 
toward  that  church  which  I  think,  in  the  main,  formed  on 
the  apostolic  model,  and  from  which  I  am  decidedly  of  opinion 
there  is  no  positive  ground  for  dissent.  I  return  tik  nks  to 
God  for  keeping  me  so  long  in  suspense,  for  I  know  it  has 

*  This  letter  was  not  seen  by  the  editor  till  after  the  prefatory 
memoir  was  printed. — R.  S. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


69 


been  beneficial  to  my  soul,  and  I  feel  a  considerable  trust  that 
the  way  is  now  about  to  be  made  clear,  and  that  my  doubts 
and  fears  on  this  head  will,  in  due  time,  be  removed. 

Could  I  be  admitted  at  St.  John's,  I  conclude,  from  what 
I  have  heard,  that  my  provision  would  be  adequate ;  not 
otherwise.  Prom  my  mother  I  could  depend  on  15 1,  or  20Z. 
a  year,  if  she  live,  toward  college  expenses,  and  I  could  spend 
the  long  vacation  at  home.  The  20Z.  per  annum  from  my 
brother  would  suffice  for  clothes,  &c,  so  that  if  I  could  pro- 
cure 20Z.  a  year  more,  as  you  seem  to  think  I  may,  by  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Martyn,  I  conceive  I  might,  with  economy,  be 
supported  at  college;  of  this,  however,  you  are  the  best  judge. 

You  may  conceive  how  much  I  feel  obliged  by  Mr.  Martyn 
on  this  head,  as  well  as  to  you,  for  your  unwearying  exertions. 
Truly,  friends  have  risen  up  to  me  in  quarters  where  I  could 
not  have  expected  them,  and  they  have  been  raised,  as  it  were, 
by  the  finger  of  God.  I  have  reason,  above  all  men,  to  be 
grateful  to  the  Father  of  all  mercies  for  Ins  loving  kindness 
towards  me ;  surely  no  one  can  have  had  more  experience  of 
the  fatherly  concern  with  which  God  watches  over,  protects, 
and  succours  his  chosen  seed,  than  I  have  had ;  and  surely  none 
could  have  less  expected  such  a  manifestation  of  his  grace,  and 
none  could  have  less  merited  its  continuance. 

*  *  *  * 

In  pursuance  of  your  injunction,  I  shall  lay  aside  Grotius, 
and  take  up  Cicero  and  Livy,  or  Tacitus.  In  Greek,  I  must 
rest  contented  for  the  ensuing  fourteen  days  with  the  Testa- 
ment ;  I  shall  then  have  conquered  the  Gospels,  and,  if  things 
go  on  smoothly,  the  Acts.  I  shall  then  read  Homer,  and 
perhaps  Plato's  Phsedon,  which  I  lately  picked  up  at  a  stall. 
My  classical  knowledge  is  very  superficial ;  it  han'  very  little 
depth  or  solidity;  but  I  have  really  so  small  a  portion  of 
leisure,  that  I  wonder  at  the  progress  I  do  make.  I  believe  I 
must  copy  the  old  divines,  in  rising  at  four  o'clock ;  for  my 
evenings  are  so  much  taken  up  with  visiting  the  sick,  and  with 
young  men  who  come  for  religious  conversation,  that  there  is 
but  little  time  for  study. 


70 


LETTERS  OF 


TO  MR.  B.  HADDOCK. 

Nottingham,  21th  April,  1804. 

My  dear  Ben, 

Truly  I  am  grieved,  that  whenever  I  undertake  to  be 
the  messenger  of  glad  tidings,  I  should  frustrate  my  own, 
design,  and  communicate  to  my  good  intelligence  a  taint  of 
sadness,  as  it  were  by  contagion.  Most  joyfully  did  I  sit 
down  to  write  my  last,  as  I  knew  I  had  wherewith  to  admi- 
nister comfort  to  you ;  and  yet,  after  all,  I  find  that  by  gloomy 
anticipations,  I  have  converted  my  balsam  into  bitterness,  and 
have  by  no  means  imparted  that  unmixed  pleasure  which  I 
wished  to  do. 

Eorebodings  and  dismal  calculations  are,  I  am  convinced, 
very  useless,  and  I  think  very  pernicious  speculations — "Suffi- 
cient for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof."  And  yet  how  apt  are 
v/e,  when  imminent  trials  molest  us,  to  increase  the  burthen 
by  melancholy  ruminations  on  future  evils  ! — evils  which  exist 
only  in  our  own  imaginations — and  which,  should  they  be 
realized,  will  certainly  arrive  in  time  to  oppress  us  sufficiently, 
without  our  adding  to  their  existence  by  previous  apprehen- 
sion, and  thus  voluntarily  incurring  the  penalty  of  misfortunes 
yet  in  prospective,  and  trials  yet  unborn.  Let  us  guard  then, 
I  beseech  you,  against  these  ungrateful  divinations  into  the 
womb  of  futurity — we  know  our  affairs  are  in  the  hands  of 
one  who  has  wisdom  to  do  for  us  beyond  our  narrow  prudence, 
and  we  cannot,  by  taking  thought,  avoid  any  afflictive  dispen- 
sation which  God's  providence  may  have  in  store  for  us.  Let 
us  therefore  enjoy  with  thankfulness  the  present  sunshine 
without  adverting  to  the  coming  storm.  Tew  and  transitory 
are  the  intervals  of  calm  and  settled  day  with  which  we  are 
cheered  in  the  tempestuous  voyage  of  life ;  we  ought  there- 
fore, to  enjoy  them,  while  they  last,  with  unmixed  delight,  and 
not  turn  the  blessing  into  a  curse,  by  lamenting  that  it  cannot 
endure  without  interruption.  We,  my  beloved  friend,  are 
united  in  our  affections  by  no  common  bands — bands  which  I 
trust  are  too  strong  to  be  easily  dissevered — yet  we  know  not 
what  God  may  intend  with  respect  to  us,  nor  have  we  any 
business  to  inquire — we  should  rely  on  the  mercy  of  our 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


71 


Father,  who  is  in  heaven — and  if  we  are  to  anticipate,  we 
should  hope  the  best.  I  stand  self-accused  therefore  for  my 
prurient,  and  I  may  say,  irreligious  fears.  A  prudent  fore- 
sight, as  it  may  guard  us  from  many  impending  dangers,  is 
laudable;  but  a  morbid  propensity  to  seize  and  brood  over 
future  ills,  is  agonizing,  while  it  is  utterly  useless,  and,  there- 
fore, ought  to  be  repressed. 

I  have  received  intelligence,  since  writing  the  above,  which 

nearly  settles  my  future  •destination.    A  informs  me  that 

Mr.  Martyn,  a  fellow  of  St.  John's,  has  about  20Z.  a-year 
to  dispose  of,  towards  keeping  a  religious  man  at  college,  and 
rac  seems  convinced  that,  if  my  mother  allows  me  20Z.  a  year 
Store,  I  may  live  at  St.  Johns,  provided  I  could  gain  admit- 
tance, which,  at  that  college,  is  difficult,  unless  you  have 
previously  stood  in  the  list  for  a  year.  Mr.  Martyn  thinks,  if 
I  propose  myself  immediately,  I  shall  get  upon  the  foundation, 
and  by  this  day's  post  I  have  transmitted  testimonials  of  my 
classical  acquirements.  In  a  few  clays,  therefore,  I  hope  to 
hear  that  I  am  on  the  boards  of  St.  John's. 

Mr.  Dashwood  has  informed  me,  that  he  also  has  received 
a  letter  from  a  gentleman,  a  magistrate  near  Cambridge,  offer- 
ing me  all  the  assistance  in  his  power  towards  getting  through 
college,  so  as  there  be  no  obligation.  My  way,  therefore,  is 
now  pretty  clear. 

I  have  just  risen  from  my  knees,  returning  thanks  to  our 
heavenly  Father  for  this  providential  opening — my  heart  is 
quite  full.  Help  me  to  be  grateful  to  him,  and  pray  that  I 
may  be  a  faithful  minister  of  his  word. 

*         $         *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE 

Nottingham. 

My  dear  Neville, 

I  sit  down  with  unfeigned  pleasure  to  write,  in  com- 
pliance with  your  request,  that  I  would  explain  to  you  the  real 
doctrines  of  the  church  of  England,  or  what  is  the  same  thing, 
of  the  Bible.    The  subject  is  most  important,  inasmuch  as  it 


72 


LETTERS  OP 


affects  that  part  of  man  which  is  incorruptible,  and  which  must 
exist  for  ever — his  soul.  When  God  made  the  brute  creation, 
he  merely  embodied  the  dust  of  the  earth,  and  gave  it  the 
power  of  locomotion,  or  of  moving  about,  and  of  existing  in  a 
certain  sphere.  In  order  to  afford  mute  animals  a  rule  of 
action,  by  which  they  might  be  kept  alive,  he  implanted  in 
them  certain  instincts,  from  which  they  can  never  depart. 
Such  is  that  of  self-preservation,  and  the  selection  of  proper 
food.  But  he  not  only  endued  man  with  these  powers,  but  he 
gave  him  mind,  or  spirit — a  faculty  which  enables  him  to 
ruminate  on  the  objects  which  he  does  not  see — to  compare 
impressions — to  invent — and  to  feel  pleasure  and  pain,  when 
their  causes  are  either  gone  or  past,  or  lie  in  the  future.  This 
is  what  constitutes  the  human  soul.  It  is  an  immaterial 
essence — no  one  knows  what  it  consists  of,  or  where  it  resides ; 
the  brain  and  the  heart  are  the  organs  which  it  most  seems  to 
affect ;  but  it  would  be  absurd  to  infer  therefrom,  that  the 
material  organs  of  the  heart  and  the  brain  constitute  the  soul, 
seeing  that  the  impressions  of  the  mind  sometimes  affect  one 
organ  and  sometimes  the  other.  Thus,  when  any  of  the  pas- 
sions— love,  hope,  fear,  pleasure,  or  pain,  are  excited,  we  feel 
them  at  our  heart.  When  we  discuss  a  topic  of  cool  reason- 
ing, the  process  is  carried  on  in  the  brain ;  yet  both  parts  are 
in  a  greater  or  less  degree  acted  upon  on  all  occasions,  and  w 
may  therefore  conclude,  that  the  soul  resides  in  neither  indi- 
vidually, but  is  an  immaterial  spirit,  which  occasionally  im- 
presses the  one,  and  occasionally  the  other.  That  the  soul  is 
immaterial,  has  been  proved  to  a  mathematical  demonstration. 
When  we  strike,  we  lift  up  our  arm — when  we  walk,  we  pro- 
trude our  legs  alternately — but  when  we  think,  we  move  no 
organ :  the  reason  depends  on  no  action  of  matter,  but  seems 
as  it  were  to  hover  over  us,  to  regulate  the  machine  of  our 
bodies,  and  to  meditate  and  speculate  on  things  abstract  as 
well  as  simple,  extraneous  as  well  as  connected  with  our  indi- 
vidual welfare,  without  having  any  bond  which  can  unite  it 
with  our  gross  corporeal  bodies.  The  flesh  is  like  the  tem- 
porary tabernacle  which  the  soul  inhabits,  governs,  and  regu- 
lates ;  but  as  it  does  not  consist  in  any  organization  of  matter 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


73 


our  bodies  may  die,  and  return  to  the  dust  from  whence  they 
were  taken,  while  our  souls,  incorporeal  essences — are  incapable 
of  death  and  annihilation.  The  spirit  is  that  portion  of  God's 
own  immortal  nature,  which  he  breathed  into  our  clay  at  our 
birth,  and  which  therefore  cannot  be  destroyed,  but  will  con- 
tinue to  exist  when  its  earthly  habitation  is  mingled  with  its 
parent  dust.  We  must  admit  therefore,  what  all  ages  and 
nations,  savage  as  well  as  civilized,  have  acknowledged,  that 
we  have  souls,  and  that  as  they  are  incorporeal,  they  do  not 
die  with  our  bodies,  but  are  necessarily  immortal.  The  ques 
tion  then  naturally  arises,  what  becomes  of  them  after  death  ? 
Here  man  of  his  own  wisdom  must  stop  : — but  God  has  thought 
fit,  in  his  mercy,  to  reveal  to  us  in  a  great  measure  the  secret 
of  our  natures,  and  in  the  Holy  Scriptures  we  find  a  plain  and 
intelligible  account  of  the  purposes  of  our  existence,  and  the 
things  we  have  to  expect  in  the  world  to  come.  And  here  I 
shall  just  remark,  that  the  authenticity  and  divine  inspiration 
of  Moses  are  established  beyond  a  doubt,  and  that  no  learned 
man  can  possibly  deny  their  authority.  Over  all  nations,  even 
among  the  savages  of  America,  cut  out  as  it  were  from  the 
eastern  world,  there  are  traditions  extant  of  the  flood,  of  Noah, 
Moses,  and  other  patriarchs,  by  names  which  come  so  near  the 
proper  ones,  as  to  remove  all  doubt  of  their  identity.  You 
know  mankind  is  continually  increasing  in  number ;  and  con- 
sequently, if  you  make  a  calculation  backwards,  the  numbers 
must  continue  lessening,  and  lessening,  until  you  come  to  a 
^oint  where  there  was  only  one  man.  Well,  according  to  the 
most  probable  calculation,  this  point  will  be  found  to  be  about 
5,800  years  back,  viz.,  the  time  of  the  creation,  making  allow- 
ance for  the  flood.  Moreover,  there  are  appearances  upon  the 
surface  of  the  globe,  which  denote  the  manner  in  which  it  was 
founded,  and  the  process  thus  developed  will  be  found  to  agree 
very  exactly  with  the  figurative  account  of  Moses. — (Of  this  I 
shall  treat  in  a  subsequent  letter.) — Admitting  then,  that  the 
books  of  the  Pentateuch  were  written  by  divine  inspiration, 
we  see  laid  before  us  the  whole  history  of  our  race,  and,  includ- 
ing the  Prophets,  and  the  New  Testament,  the  whole  scheme 
of  oar  future  existence  :  we  learn,  in  the  first  place,  that  God 


74 


LETTERS  OF 


created  man  in  a  state  of  perfect  happiness,  that  he  was  placed 
in  the  midst  of  everything  that  could  delight  the  eye  or  fasci- 
nate the  mind,  and  that  lie  had  only  one  command  imposed 
upon  him,  which  he  was  to  keep  under  the  penalty  of  death. 
This  command  God  has  been  pleased  to  cover  to  our  eyes  with 
impenetrable  obscurity.  Moses,  in  the  figurative  language  of 
the  East,  calls  it  eating  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  of 
Good  and  Evil.  But  this  we  can  understand,  that  man 
rebelled  against  the  command  of  his  Maker,  and  plunged  him- 
self by  that  crime,  from  a  state  of  bliss  to  a  state  of  sorrow, 
and  in  the  end,  of  death. — By  death  here  is  meant,  the  exclu- 
sion of  the  soul  from  future  happiness.  It  followed,  that  if 
Adam  fell  from  bliss,  his  posterity  must  fall,  for  the  fruit  must 
be  like  the  parent  stock ;  and  a  man  made  as  it  were  dead, 
must  likewise  bring  forth  children  under  the  same  curse. — 
Evil  cannot  beget  good. 

But  the  benign  Eather  of  the  universe  had  pity  upon 
Adam  and  his  posterity,  and  knowing  the  frailty  of  our  nature, 
he  did  not  wish  to  assume  the  whole  terrors  of  his  just  ven- 
geance. Still,  God  is  a  being  who  is  infinitely  just,  as  well  as 
infinitely  merciful,  and  therefore  his  decrees  are  not  to  be 
dispensed  with,  and  his  offended  justice  must  have  expiation. 
The  case  of  mankind  was  deplorable; — myriads  yet  unborn 
were  implicated  by  the  crime  of  their  common  progenitor  in 
general  ruin.  But  the  mercy  of  God  prevailed,  and  Jesus 
Christ,  the  Messias,  of  whom  all  ages  talked  before  he  came 
down  amongst  men,  offered  himself  up  as  an  atonement  for 
man's  crimes.  The  Son  of  God  himself,  infinite  in  mercy, 
offered  to  take  up  the  human  form,  to  undergo  the  severest 
pains  of  human  life,  and  the  severest  pangs  of  death ;  he  offered 
to  lie  under  the  power  of  the  grave  for  a  certain  period,  and, 
in  a  word,  to  sustain  all  the  punishment  of  our  primitive  dis- 
obedience in  the  stead  of  man.  The  atonement  was  infinite, 
because  God's  justice  is  infinite;  and  nothing  but  such  an 
atonement  could  have  saved  the  fallen  race. 

The  death  of  Christ  then  takes  away  the  stain  of  original 
sin,  and  gives  man  at  least  the  poweu  of  attaining  eternal 
bliss.    Still,  our  salvation  is  conditional,  and  we  have  certain. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


75 


requisitions  to  comply  with  ere  we  can  be  secure  of  heaven. 
The  next  question  then  is,  What  are  the  conditions  on  which 
we  are  to  be  saved  ?  The  word  of  God  here  comes  in  again 
in  elucidation  of  our  duty ;  the  chief  point  insisted  upon  is, 
that  we  should  keep  God's  Law  contained  in  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments ;  but  as  the  omission  or  breach  of  one  article  of 
the  twelve  tables  is  a  crime  just  of  as  great  magnitude  as  the 
original  sin,  and  entails  the  penalty  on  us  as  much  as  if  we  had 
infringed  the  whole ;  God,  seeing  our  frailty,  provided  a  means, 
of  effecting  our  salvation,  in  which  nothing  should  be  required 
of  us  but  reliance  on  his  truth.  God  sent  the  Saviour  to  bear 
the  weight  of  our  sins ;  he,  therefore,  requires  us  to  believe 
implicitly,  that  through  his  blood  we  shall  be  accepted.  This 
is  the  succedaneum  which  he  imposed  in  lieu  of  the  observance 
of  the  moral  law.  Eaith  !  Believe,  and  ye  shall  be  saved. — 
He  requires  from  us  to  throw  ourselves  upon  the  Redeemer, 
to  look  for  acceptance  through  him  alone,  to  regard  ourselves 
as  depraved,  debased,  fallen  creatures,  who  can  do  nothing 
worthy  in  his  sight,  and  who  only  hope  for  mercy  through  the 
Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.  Eaith  is  the  foundation  stone  : 
Eaith  is  the  superstructure ;  Eaith  is  all  in  all. — "  By  Eaith  are 
ye  saved ;  by  Eaith  are  ye  justified.55 

How  easy,  my  dear  Neville,  are  the  conditions  God  imposes 
upon  us  !  He  only  commands  us  to  feel  the  tie  of  common 
gratitude,  to  trust  in  the  mediation  of  his  Son,  and  all  shall  be 
forgiven  us.  And  shall  our  pride,  our  deluded  imaginations, 
our  false  philosophy,  interfere  to  blind  our  eyes  to  the  beauties 
of  so  benevolent,  so  benign  a  system  !— Or  shall  earthly  plea- 
sures engross  all  our  thoughts,  nor  leave  space  for  a  care  for 
our  souls ! — God  forbid.  As  for  Eaith,  if  our  hearts  are  hard- 
ened, and  we  cannot  feel  that  implicit,  that  fervent  belief, 
which  the  scripture  requires,  let  us  pray  to  God  that  he  will 
send  his  Holy  Spirit  down  upon  us,  that  he  will  enlighten  our 
understanding  with  the  knowledge  of  that  Truth  which  is  too- 
vast,  too  sublime  for  human  understandings,  unassisted  by 
Divine  Grace,  to  comprehend. 

I  have  here  drawn  a  hasty  outline  of  the  gospel  plan  of 
salvation.  In  a  future  letter  I  shall  endeavour  to  fill  it  up.  At 


76 


LETTERS  OF 


present  I  shall  only  say,  think  on  these  things  ! — They  are  of 
moment  inconceivable.  Read  your  bible,  in  order  to  confirm 
yourself  in  these  sublime  truths,  and  pray  to  God  to  sanctify 
to  you  the  instructions  it  contains.  At  present  I  would  turn 
your  attention  exclusively  to  the  New  Testament.  Head  also 
the  book  which  accompanies  this  letter ; — it  is  by  the  great 
Locke,  and  will  serve  to  show  you  what  so  illustrious  a  philo- 
sopher thought  of  revelation. 

♦  *  *  * 


TO  MR.  R.  A  . 

Nottingham,  May  7th,  1804. 

Dear  Robert, 

You  don't  know  how  I  long  to  hear  how  your  decla- 
mation was  received,  and  '  all  about  it,5  as  we  say  in  these 
parts.  I  hope  to  see  it,  when  I  see  its  author  and  pronouncer. 
Themistocles,  no  doubt,  received  due  praise  from  you  for  his 
valour  and  subtlety ;  but  I  trust  you  poured  down  a  torrent 
of  eloquent  indignation  upon  the  ruling  principles  of  his  ac- 
tions, and  the  motive  of  his  conduct ;  while  you  exalted  the 
mild  and  unassuming  virtues  of  his  more  amiable  rival.  The 
object  of  Themistocles  was  the  aggrandisement  of  himself,  tha+ 
of  Aristides  the  welfare  and  prosperity  of  the  state.  The  one 
endeavoured  to  swell  the  glory  of  his  country ;  the  other  to 
promote  its  security,  external  and  internal,  foreign  and  do- 
mestic. "While  you  estimated  the  services  which  Themistocles 
rendered  to  the  state,  in  opposition  to  those  of  Aristides,  you 
of  course  remembered  that  the  former  had  the  largest  scope 
for  action,  and  that  he  influenced  his  countrymen  to  fall  into 
all  his  plans,  while  they  banished  his  competitor,  not  by  his 
superior  wisdom  or  goodness,  but  by  those  intrigues  and  fac- 
tious artifices  which  Aristides  would  have  disdained.  Themis- 
tocles certainly  did  use  bad  means  to  a  desirable  end :  and  if 
we  may  assume  it  as  an  axiom,  that  Providence  will  forward 
the  designs  of  a  good  sooner  than  those  of  a  bad  man,  what- 
ever inequality  of  abilities  there  may  be  between  the  two 


HEtfRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


77 


characters.,  it  will  follow  that — had  Athens  remained  nnder 
the  guidance  of  Aristides,  it  would  have  been  better  for  her. 
The  difference  between  Themistocles  and  Aristides  seems  to  me 
to  be  this :  that  the  former  was  a  wise  and  a  fortunate  man, 
and  that  the  latter,  though  he  had  equal  wisdom,  had  not  equal 
good  fortune.  We  may  admire  the  heroic  qualities  and  the 
crafty  policy  of  the  one;  but  to  the  temperate  and  disin- 
terested patriotism,  the  good  and  virtuous  dispositions  of  the 
other,  we  can  alone  give  the  meed  of  heartfelt  'praise. 

I  only  mean  by  this,  that  we  must  not  infer  Themistocles  to 
have  been  the  better  or  the  greater  man,  because  he  rendered 
more  essential  services  to  the  state  than  Aristides,  nor  even  that 
his  system  was  the  most  judicious, — but  only,  that  by  decision 
of  character  and  by  good  fortune,  his  measures  succeeded  best. 
*  *  *  * 

The  rules  of  composition  are,  in  my  opinion,  very  few.  If 
we  have  a  mature  acquaintance  with  our  subject,  there  is  little 
fear  of  our  expressing  it  as  we  ought,  provided  we  have  had 
some  little  experience  in  writing.  The  first  thing  to  be  aimed 
at  is  perspicuity.  That  is  the  great  point  which,  once  at- 
tained, will  make  all  other  obstacles  smooth  to  us.  In  order 
to  write  perspicuously,  we  should  have  a  perfect  knowledge  of 
the  topic  on  which  we  are  about  to  treat  in  all  its  bearings 
and  dependencies.  We  should  think  well  beforehand,  what 
will  be  the  clearest  method  of  conveying  the  drift  of  our 
design.  This  is  similar  to  what  painters  call  the  massing,  or 
getting  the  effect  of  the  more  prominent  lights  and  shades  by 
broad  dashes  of  the  pencil.  When  our  thesis  is  well  arranged 
in  our  mind,  and  we  have  predisposed  our  arguments,  reason- 
ings, and  illustrations,  so  as  they  shall  all  conduce  to  the 
object  in  view,  in  regular  sequence  and  gradation,  we  may  sit 
down  and  express  our  ideas  in  as  clear  a  manner  as  we  can, 
always  using  such  words  as  are  most  suited  to  our  purpose ;  and 
when  two  modes  of  expression,  equally  luminous,  present  them- 
selves, selecting  that  which  is  the  most  harmonious  and  elegant. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  writers,  in  aiming  at  perspicuity, 
overreach  themselves  by  employing  too  many  words,  and 
perplex  the  mind  by  a  multiplicity  of  illustrations.    This  is  a 


78 


LETTERS  OF 


very  fatal  error.  Circumlocution  seldom  conduces  to  plain- 
ness ;  and  you  may  take  it  as  a  maxim,  that  when  once  an 
idea  is  clearly  expressed,  every  additional  stroke  will  only 
confuse  the  mind  and  diminish  the  effect. 

When  you  have  once  learned  to  express  yourself  with  clear- 
ness and  propriety,  you  will  soon  arrive  at  elegance.  Every- 
thing else,  in  fact,  will  follow  as  of  course.  But  I  warn  you 
not  to  invert  the  order  of  things,  and  be  paying  your  addresses 
to  the  Graces,  when  you  ought  to  be  studying  perspicuity. 
Young  writers,  in  general,  are  too  solicitous  to  round  off  their 
periods  and  regulate  the  cadences  of  their  style.  Hence  the 
feeble  pleonasms  and  idle  repetitions  which  deform  their  pages. 
If  you  would  have  your  compositions  vigorous  and  masculine 
in  their  tone,  let  every  word  tell;  and  when  you  detect 
yourself  polishing  off  a  sentence  with  expletives,  regard  your- 
self in  exactly  the  same  predicament  with  a  poet  who  should 
eke  out  the  measure  of  his  verses  with  "  titum,  titum,  tee,  Sir." 

So  much  for  style  

*         #         *  # 


TO  MR.  E.  A  . 

Nottingham,  9th  May,  1804. 

My  dear  Eriend, 

%  *  *  * 
I  have  not  spoken  as  yet  to  Messrs.  Coldham  and  Enfield. 
Your  injunction  to  suspend  so  doing  has  left  me  in  a  state  of 
mind,  which,  I  tliink,  I  am  blameable  for  indulging,  but  which 
is  indescribably  painful.  I  had  no  sleep  last  night,  partly  from 
anxiety,  and  partly  from  the  effects  of  a  low  fever,  which  has 
preyed  on  my  nerves  for  the  last  six  or  seven  days.  I  am 
afraid,  Robert,  my  religion  is  very  superficial.  I  ought  not 
to  feel  this  distrust  of  God's  providence.  Should  I  now  be 
prevented  from  going  to  College,  I  shall  regard  it  as  a  just 
punishment  for  my  want  of  faith. 

I  conclude  Mr.  Martyn  has  failed  in  procuring  the  aid  he 
expected.   Is  it  so  ? 

*         *         #  * 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


70 


On  these  contingencies,  Robert,  you  must  know  from  my 
peculiar  situation  I  snail  never  be  able  to  get  to  College.  My 
mother,  at  all  times  averse,  has  lately  been  pressed  by  one  of 
the  deacons  of  Castlegate  Meeting,  to  prevail  on  me  to  go  to 
Dr.  Williams.  This  idea  now  fills  her  head,  and  she  would 
feel  no  small  degree  of  pleasure  in  the  failure  of  my  resources 
for  College.  Besides  this,  her  natural  anxiety  for  my  welfare 
will  never  allow  her  to  permit  me  to  go  to  the  University 
depending  almost  entirely  on  herself,  knowing  not  only  the 
inadequacy,  but  the  great  uncertainty,  of  her  aid.  Coldham 
and  Enfield  must  likewise  be  satisfied  that  my  way  is  clear :  I 
tremble,  I  almost  despair.  A  variety  of  contending  emotions, 
which  I  cannot  particularize,  agitate  my  mind.  I  tremble  lest 
I  should  have  mistaken  my  call :  these  are  solemn  warnings : 
but  no — I  cannot  entertain  the  thought.  To  the  ministry  I  am 
devoted,  I  believe,  by  God;  in  what  way  must  be  left  to  his 
providence. 

*  *  *  IK 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Nottingham,  June,  1804. 

Dear  Neville, 

In  answer  to  your  question,  whether  the  Sizars  have  any 
duties  to  perform,  I  answer  no.  Somebody,  perhaps,  has  been 
liinting  that  there  are  servile  offices  to  be  performed  by  Sizars. 
It  is  a  common  opinion,  but  perfectly  erroneous.  The  Oxford 
Servitors,  I  believe,  have  many  unpleasant  duties;  but  the 
Sizars  at  Cambridge  only  differ  from  the  rest  in  name. 
^         #         *  * 


TO  MR.  B.  HADDOCK. 

Nottingham,  June  15th,  1804. 

Mt  dear  Ben, 

I  do  not  sit  down  to  write  you  a  long  letter,  for  I  have 
been  too  much  exhausted  with  mathematics  to  have  much 
vigour  of  mind  left ;  my  lines  will  therefore  be  wider  than  they 


LETTERS  OP 


arc  wont  to  be,  3  nd  I  shall,  for  once,  be  obliged  to  diffuse  a 
little  matter  over  a  broad  surface.  Tor  a  consolatory  letter  I 
trust  you  have  little  need,  as  by  this  time  you  have  no  doubt 
learned  to  meet  with  calmness,  those  temporary  privations  and 
inconveniences  which,  in  this  life,  we  must  expect,  and  there- 
fore should  be  prepared  to  encounter. 

*  *  #  * 

This  is  true — this  is  Christian  philosophy :  it  is  a  philo- 
sophy in  which  we  must  all,  sooner  or  later,  be  instituted,  and 
which,  if  you  steadfastly  persist  in  seeking,  I  am  sure  God  will 
assist  you  to  your  manifest  comfort  and  peace. 

There  are  sorrows,  and  there  are  misfortunes,  which  bow 
down  the  spirit  beyond  the  aid  of  all  human  comfort.  Of 
these,  I  know,  my  dear  Ben,  you  have  had  more  than  common 
experience;  but  while  the  cup  of  life  does  overflow  with 
draughts  of  such  extreme  asperity,  we  ought  to  fortify  our- 
selves against  lesser  evils,  as  unimportant  to  man,  who  has 
much  heavier  woes  to  expect,  and  to  the  Christian,  whose  joys 
are  laid  beyond  the  verge  of  mortal  existence.  There  are 
afflictions,  there  are  privations,  where  death,  and  hopes  iehe- 
covehajbly  blasted,  leave  no  prospect  of  retrieval;  when  1 
would  no  more  say  to  the  mourner,  "  Man,  wherefore  weepest 
thou?"  than  I  would  ask  the  winds  why  they  blew,  or  the 
tempest  why  it  raged.  Sorrows  like  these  are  sacred :  but  the 
inferior  troubles  of  partial  separation,  vexatious  occupation, 
and  opposing  current  of  human  affairs,  are  such  as  ought  not, 
at  least  immoderately,  to  affect  a  Christian ;  but  rather  ought 
to  be  contemplated  as  the  necessary  accidents  of  life,  and 
disregarded  while  their  pains  are  most  sensibly  felt. 

Do  not  think,  I  beseech  you,  my  dear  Ben,  that  I  wish  to 
represent  your  sorrows  as  light  or  trivial ;  I  know  they  are  not 
light ;  I  know  they  are  not  trivial :  but  I  wish  to  induce  you 
to  sum  up  the  man  within  you,  and  while  those  unhappy 
troubles,  which  you  cannot  alleviate,  must  continue  to  torment 
you,  I  would  exhort  you  to  rise  superior  to  the  crosses  of  life, 
and  show  yourself  a  genuine  disciple  of  Jesus  Christ,  in  the 
endurance  of  evil  without  repining,  or  unavailable  lamentations. 

Blest  as  you  are  with  the  good  testimony  of  an  approving 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


81 


conscience,  and  happy  in  an  intimate  communion  with  the 
all-pure  and  all-merciful  God,  these  trifling  concerns  ought 
not  to  molest  you;  nay,  were  the  tide  of  adversity  to  turn 
strong  against  you,  even  were  your  friends  to  forsake  you,  and 
abject  poverty  to  stare  you  in  the  face,  you  ought  to  be  abun- 
dantly thankful  to  God  for  his  mercies  to  you ;  you  ought  to 
consider  yourself  still  as  rich ;  yea,  to  look  around  you,  and 
say,  I  am  far  happier  than  the  sons  of  men. 

This  is  a  system  of  philosophy  which,  for  myself,  I  shall  not 
only  preach,  but  practise.  We  are  here  for  nobler  purposes 
than  to  waste  the  fleeting  moments  of  our  lives  in  lamenta- 
tions and  wailings  over  troubles  which,  in  their  widest  extent, 
do  but  affect  the  present  state,  and  which,  perhaps,  only  regard 
our  personal  ease  and  prosperity.  Make  me  an  outcast — a 
beggar ;  place  me  a  bare-footed  pilgrim  on  the  top  of  the 
Alps  or  the  Pyrenees,  and  I  should  have  wherewithal  to  sustain 
the  spirit  within  me,  in  the  reflection  that  all  this  was  but  as 
for  a  moment,  and  that  a  period  would  come,  when  wrong,  and 
injury,  and  trouble  should  be  no  more.  Are  we  to  be  so 
utterly  enslaved  by  habit  and  association,  that  we  shall  spend 
our  lives  in  anxiety  and  bitter  care,  only  that  we  may  find  a 
covering  for  our  bodies,  or  the  means  of  assuaging  hunger  ? 
for  what  else  is  an  anxiety  after  the  world  ?  Or  are  even  the 
followers  of  Christ  themselves  to  be  infected  with  the  insane, 
the  childish  desire  of  heaping  together  wealth  ?  Were  a  man, 
in  the  way  of  making  a  large  fortune,  to  take  up  his  hat  and  stick, 
and  say,  "  I  am  useless  here,  and  unhappy ;  I  will  go  and  abide 
with  the  Gentoo  or  the  Paraguay,  where  I  shall  be  happy  and 
useful,''  he  would  be  laughed  at;  but  I  say  he  would  prove 
himself  a  more  reasonable  and  virtuous  man,  than  him  who 
binds  himself  down  to  a  business  which  he  dislikes,  because  it 
would  be  accounted  strange,  or  foolish,  to  abandon  so  good  a 
concern,  and  who  heaps  up  wealth,  for  which  he  has  little  relish, 
because  the  world  accounts  it  policy. 

I  will  refrain  from  pursuing  this  tone  of  reasoning ;  I  know 
the  weakness  of  human  nature,  and  I  know  that  we  may  argue 
with  a  deal  of  force,  to  show  the  folly  of  grief,  when  we  our- 
selves are  its  passive  victims.   But  whether  strength  of  mind 

G 


82 


LETTERS  OF 


prevail  with  you,  or  whether  you  still  indulge  in  melancholy 
bodings  and  repmings,  I  am  still  your  friend,  nay,  your  sympa- 
thizing friend.  Hard  and  callous  and  "unfeeling"  as  I  may 
seem,  I  have  a  heart  for  my  ever  dear  Benjamin. 

Henry  Kirke  White. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Wilford,  near  Nottingham,  1801. 

Dear  Neville, 

I  now  write  to  you  from  a  little  cottage  at  Wilford,  where 
1  have  taken  a  room  for  a  fortnight,  as  well  for  the  benefit  of 
my  health,  as  for  the  advantage  of  uninteiTupted  study.  I 
live  in  a  homely  house,  in  a  homely  style,  but  am  well  occu- 
pied, and  perfectly  at  my  ease. 

And  now,  my  dear  brother,  I  must  sincerely  beg  pardon  for 
all  those  manifold  neglects,  of  which  I  cannot  but  accuse  myself 
towards  you.  When  I  recollect  innumerable  requests  in  your 
letters  which  I  have  not  noticed,  and  many  inquiries  I  have 
not  satisfied,  I  almost  feel  afraid  that  you  will  imagine  I  no 
longer  regard  your  letters  with  brotherly  fondness,  and  that 
you  will  cease  to  exercise  towards  me  your  wonted  confidence 
and  friendship.  Indeed,  you  may  take  my  word,  they  have 
arisen  from  my  peculiar  circumstances,  and  not  from  any 
unconcern  or  disregard  of  your  wishes.  I  am  now  bringing 
my  affairs  (laugh  not  at  the  word)  into  some  regularity,  after 
all  the  hurry  and  confusion  in  which  they  have  been  plunged, 
by  the  distraction  of  mind  attending  my  publication,  and  the 
yrojected  change  of  my  destination  in  life. 

*         *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Wilford,  near  Nottingham,  1804. 

Dear  Neville, 

*  s        *         *  # 
I  have  run  very  much  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  post  here ; 
for  having  sent  copies  round  to  such  persons  as  had  given  me 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


83 


in  their  names  as  subscribers,  with  compliments,  they  have 
placed  them  to  the  account  of  presents ! 

*  *         *  * 

And  now,  my  dear  Neville,  I  must  give  you  the  most  inge- 
nious specimen  of  the  invention  of  petty  envy  you  perhaps 
ever  heard  of.  When  Addison  produced  "Cato,"  it  was 
currently  received,  that  he  had  bought  it  of  a  vicar  for  40£. 
The  Nottingham  gentry,  knowing  me  too  poor  to  buy  my  poems, 
thought  they  could  do  no  better  than  place  it  to  the  account 
of  family  affection,  and  lo !  Mrs.  Smith  is  become  the  sole 
author,  who  has  made  use  of  her  brother's  name  as  a  feint !  1 
heard  of  this  report  first  covertly;  it  was  said  that  Mrs.  Smith 
was  the  principal  writer :  next  it  was  said  that  I  was  the 
author  of  one  of  the  inferior  smaller  pieces  only,  ("  My  Study 
and  lastly,  on  mentioning  the  circumstances  to  Mr.  A—,  he 
confessed  that  he  had  heard  several  times  that  "  my  sister  was 
the  sole  quill-driver  of  the  family,  and  that  Master  Henry,  in 
particular,  was  rather  shallow/5  but  that  he  had  refrained  from 
telling  me,  because  he  thought  it  would  vex  me.  Now  as  to 
the  vexing  me,  it  only  has  afforded  me  a  hearty  laugh.  I  sent 
my  compliments  to  one  great  lady,  whom  I  heard  propagating 
this  ridiculous  report,  and  congratulated  her  on  her  ingenuity, 
telling  her,  as  a  great  secret,  that  neither  my  sister  or  myself 
had  any  claim  to  any  of  the  Poems,  for  the  right  author  was 
the  Great  Mogul's  cousin  german.  The  best  part  of  the  story 
is,  that  my  good  friend,  Benjamin  Maddock,  found  means  to 
get  me  to  write  verses  extempore,  to  prove  whether  I  could 
tag  rhymes  or  not,  which,  it  seems,  he  doubted. 

*  *         *  « 


TO  ME.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Nottingham,  7th  July,  1804. 

My  dear  Ben, 

*         *         m  ft 
The  real  wants  of  life  are  few ;  the  support  of  the  body, 
simply,  is  no  expensive  matter ;  and  as  we  are  not  mad  upon 
silk  and  satins,  the  covering  of  it  will  not  be  more  costly. 
The  only  superfluity  I  should  covet  would  be  books  j  but  I 

G  2 


84 


LETTERS  OF 


have  learned  how  to  abridge  that  pleasure ;  and  having  sold 
the  flower  of  my  library  for  the  amazing  sum  of  six  guineas,  I 
mean  to  try  whether  meditation  will  not  supply  the  place  of 
general  reading,  and  probably,  by  the  time  I  am  poor  and 
needy,  I  shall  look  upon  a  large  library  like  a  fashionable 
wardrobe,  goodly  and  pleasant,  but  as  to  the  real  utility, 
indifferent. 

So  much  for  Stoicism,  and  now  for  Monachism — I  shall 
never,  never  marry !  It  cannot,  must  not  be.  As  to  affec- 
tions, mine  are  already  engaged  as  much  as  they  will  ever  be, 
and  this  is  one  reason  why  I  believe  my  life  will  be  a  life  01 
celibacy.  I  pray  to  God  that  it  may  be  so,  and  that  I  may  be 
happy  in  that  state.  I  love  too  ardently  to  make  love  inno- 
cent, and  therefore  I  say  farewell  to  it.  Besides,  I  have 
another  inducement,  I  cannot  introduce  a  woman  into  poverty 
for  my  love's  sake,  nor  could  I  well  bear  to  see  such  a  one  as 
I  must  marry  struggling  with  narrow  circumstances,  and 
sighing  for  the  fortunes  of  her  children. — No,  I  say,  forbear ! 
and  may  the  example  of  St.  Gregory  of  Naz  and  St.  Basil 
support  me. 

All  friends  are  well,  except  your  humble  scribe,  who  has  got 
a  little  too  much  into  his  old  way  since  your  departure. 
Studying,  and  musing,  and  dreaming  of  everything  but  his 
health ;  still  amid  all  his  studyings,  musings,  and  dreams, 
Your  true  friend  and  brother, 

H.  K.  White. 


TO  THE  EDITOR. 

Nottingham,  July  9th,  1804. 
*  *  *  * 

I  can  now  inform  you,  that  I  have  reason  to  believe  my 
way  through  college  is  clear  before  me.  From  what  source 
I  know  not ;  but  through  the  hands  of  Mr.  Simeon  I  am  pro- 
vided with  30Z.  per  annum;  and  while  things  go  on  so 
prosperously  as  they  do  now,  I  can  command  20Z.  or  30Z. 
more  from  my  friends,  and  this,  in  all  probability,  until  I  take 
my  degree.    The  friends  to  whom  I  allude  are  my  mother 

und  hro+h*** 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


85 


My  mother  lias,  for  these  five  years  past,  kept  a  boarding 
school  in  Nottingham ;  and,  so  long  as  her  school  continues  in 
its  present  state,  she  can  supply  me  with  15  or  201.  per  an- 
num, without  inconvenience;  but  should  she  die  (and  her 
health  is,  I  fear,  but  infirm),  that  resource  will  altogether  fail. 
Still,  I  think,  my  prospect  is  so  good  as  to  preclude  any 
anxiety  on  my  part ;  and  perhaps  my  income  will  be  more 
than  adequate  to  my  wants,  as  I  shall  be  a  Sizar  ol  St.  John's, 
where  the  college  emoluments  are  more  than  commonly  large. 

In  this  situation  of  my  affairs  you  will  perhaps  agree  with 
me  in  thinking,  that  a  subscription  for  a  volume  of  poems  will 
not  be  necessary ;  and,  certainly,  that  measure  is  one  which 
will  be  better  avoided,  if  it  may  be.  I  have  lately  looked  over 
what  poems  I  have  by  me  in  manuscript,  and  find  them  more 
numerous  than  I  expected ;  but  many  of  them  would  perhaps 
be  styled  mopish,  and  mawkish,  and  even  misanthropic,  in 
the  language  of  the  world ;  though  from  the  latter  sentiment, 
I  am  sure  I  can  say,  no  one  is  more  opposite  than  I  am. 
These  poems,  therefore,  will  never  see  the  light,  as,  from  a 
teacher  of  that  word  which  gives  all  strength  to  the  feeble, 
more  fortitude  and  Christian  philosophy  may,  with  justice,  be 
expected  than  they  display.  The  remainder  of  my  verses 
would  not  possess  any  great  interest :  mere  description  is 
often  mere  nonsense:  and  I  have  acquired  a  strange  habit, 
whenever  I  do  point  out  a  train  of  moral  sentiment  from  the 
contemplation  of  a  picture,  to  give  it  a  gloomy  and  querulous 
cast,  when  there  is  nothing  in  the  occasion  but  what  ought  to 
inspire  joy  and  gratitude.  I  have  one  poem,*  however,  of 
some  length,  which  I  shall  preserve ;  and  I  have  another  of 
considerable  magnitude  in  design,  but  of  which  only  a  part  is 
written,  which  I  am  fairly  at  a  loss  whether  to  commit  to  the 
flames,  or  at  some  future  opportunity  to  finish.  The  subject 
is  the  Death  ol  Christ.  I  have  no  friend  whose  opinion  is  at 
all  to  be  relied  on  to  whom  I  could  submit  it ;  and  perhaps 
after  all,  it  may  be  absolutely  worthless. 

With  regard  to  that  part  of  my  provision  which  is  derived 

*  Time  is  probably  the  poem  alluded  to. 


8G 


LETTERS  OP 


from  my  unknown  friend,  it  is  of  course  conditional ;  and  as 
it  is  not  a  provision  for  a  poet,  but  for  a  candidate  for  orders, 
I  believe  it  is  expected,  and  indeed  it  has  been  hinted  as  a 
thing  advisable,  that  I  should  barter  the  Muses  for  mathe- 
matics, and  abstain  from  writing  verses  at  least  until  I  take 
my  degree.  If  I  find  that  all  my  time  will  be  requisite,  in 
order  to  prepare  for  the  important  office  I  am  destined  to  fill, 
I  shall  certainly  do  my  duty,  however  severely  it  may  cost 
me ;  but  if  I  find  I  may  lawfully  and  conscientiously  relax 
myself  at  intervals  with  those  delightful  reveries  which  have 
hitherto  formed  the  chief  pleasure  of  my  life,  I  shall,  without 
scruple,  indulge  myself  in  them. 

I  know  the  pursuit  of  truth  is  a  much  more  important 
business  than  the  exercise  of  the  imagination ;  and  amid  all 
the  quaintness  and  stiff  method  of  the  mathematicians,  I  can 
even  discover  a  source  of  chaste  and  exalted  pleasure.  To  their 
severe  but  salutary  discipline,  I  must  now  "  subdue  the  vivid 
shapings  of  my  youth;"  and  though  I  shall  cast  many  a  fond 
lingering  look  to  Taney's  more  alluring  paths,  yet  I  shall  be 
repaid  by  the  anticipation  of  days  when  I  may  enjoy  the  sweet 
satisfaction  of  being  useful,  in  no  ordinary  degree,  to  my 
fellow-mortals. 

*         *         %  9 


TO  MR.  SERJEANT  ROUGH. 

Nottingham,  24th  July,  1804. 

Dear  ib, 

*  *  *  * 
I  think  Mr.  Moore's  love  poems  are  infamous,  because  they 
subvert  the  first  great  object  of  poetry, — the  encouragement 
of  the  virtuous  and  the  noble ;  and  metamorphose  nutritious 
aliment  into  poison.  It  hink  the  Muses  are  degraded  when 
they  are  made  the  handmaids  of  sensuality,  and  the  bawds  of 
a  brothel. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  the  opinion  of  a  young  man,  but  I  think, 
too,  the  old  system  of  heroic  attachment,  with  all  its  attendant 
iiotions  of  honour  and  spotlessness,  was,  in  the  end,  calculated 


HENKY  KXRKE  WHITE. 


S7 


to  promote  the  interests  of  the  human  race ;  for  though  it 
produced  a  temporary  alienation  of  mind,  perhaps  bordering 
on  insanity,  yet  with  the  very  extravagance  and  madness  of 
the  sentiments  there  were  inwoven  certain  imperious  prin- 
ciples of  virtue  and  generosity,  which  would  probably  remain 
after  time  had  evaporated  the  heat  of  passion,  and  sobered 
the  luxuriance  of  a  romantic  imagination.  I  think,  therefore, 
a  man  of  song  is  rendering  the  community  a  service  when  he 
displays  the  ardour  of  manly  affection  in  a  pleasing  light : 
but  certainly  we  need  no  incentives  to  the  irregular  gratifica* 
tion  of  our  appetites,  and  I  should  tlnnk  it  a  proper  punish* 
ment  for  the  poet  who  holds  forth  the  alluremGnts  of  illicit 
pleasures  in  amiable  and  seductive  colours,  should  his  wife, 
his  sister,  or  his  child,  fall  a  victim  to  the  licentiousness  he 
has  been  instrumental  in  diffusing. 

*  *  *  * 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Winteringham,  August  3rd,  1804. 

My  dear  Ben, 

I  am  ail  anxiety  to  learn  the  issue  of  your  proposal  to 
your  father.  Surely  it  will  proceed ;  surely  a  plan  laid  out 
with  such  fair  prospects  of  happiness  to  you,  as  well  as  me, 
will  not  be  frustrated.  Write  to  me  the  moment  you  have  any 
information  on  the  subject. 

I  think  we  shall  be  happy  together  at  Cambridge ;  and  in 
the  ardent  pursuit  of  Christian  knowledge,  and  Christian 
virtue,  we  shall  be  doubly  united.  We  were  before  friends ; 
now,  I  hope,  likely  to  be  still  more  emphatically  so  But  I 
must  not  anticipate. 

I  left  Nottingham  without  seeing  my  brother  Neville,  who 
arrived  there  two  days  after  me.  This  is  a  circumstance 
which  I  much  regret ;  but  I  hope  he  will  come  this  way,  when 
he  goes,  according  to  his  intention,  to  a  watering  place. 
Neville  has  been  a  good  brother  to  me,  and  there  are  not 
many  things  which  would  give  me  more  pleasure  than,  after 


88 


LETTERS  OF 


so  long  a  separation,  to  see  liim  again.  I  dare  not  hope  that 
I  shall  meet  you  and  him  together,  in  October,  at  Nottingham. 

My  days  flow  on  here  in  an  even  tenour.  They  are,  indeed, 
studious  days,  for  my  studies  seem  to  multiply  on  my  hands, 
and  I  am  so  much,  occupied  by  them  that  I  am  becoming  a 
mere  book-worm  running  over  the  rules  of  Greek  versification 
in  my  walks,  instead  of  expatiating  on  the  beauties  of  the 
surrounding  scenery.  Winteringham  is,  indeed,  now  a  de- 
lightful place ;  the  trees  are  in  full  verdure,  the  crops  are 
bronzing  the  fields,  and  my  former  walks  are  become  dry  under 
foot,  which  I  have  never  known  them  to  be  before.  The 
opening  vista,  from  our  church-yard,  over  the  Humber,  to  the 
hills  and  receding  vales  of  Yorkshire,  assumes  a  thousand 
new  aspects.  I  sometimes  watch  it  at  evening,  when  the  sun 
is  just  gilding  the  summits  of  the  hills,  and  the  lowlands  are 
beginning  to  take  a  browner  hue.  The  showers  partially 
falling  in  the  distance,  while  all  is  serene  above  me  ;  the  swell- 
ing sail  rapidly  falling  down  the  river ;  and,  not  least  of  all, 
the  villages,  woods,  and  villas  on  the  opposite  bank,  sometimes 
render  this  scene  quite  enchanting  to  me;  and  it  is  no  con- 
temptible relaxation,  after  a  man  has  been  puzzling  his  brains 
over  the  intricacies  of  Greek  choruses  all  the  day,  to  come  out 
and  unbend  his  mind  with  careless  thought,  and  negligent 
fancies,  while  he  refreshes  his  body  with  the  fresh  air  of  the 
country. 

I  wish  you  to  have  a  taste  of  these  pleasures  with  me ;  and 
if  ever  I  should  live  to  be  blessed  with  a  quiet  parsonage,  and 
that  great  object  of  my  ambition,  a  garden,  I  have  no  doubt 
but  we  shall  be,  for  some  short  intervals  at  least,  two  quiet 
contented  bodies.  These  will  be  our  relaxations  ;  our  business 
will  be  of  a  nobler  kind.  Let  us  vigilantly  fortify  ourselves 
against  the  exigencies  of  the  serious  appointment  we  are,  with 
God's  blessing,  to  fulfil ;  and  if  we  go  into  the  church  pre- 
pared to  do  our  duty,  there  is  every  reasonable  prospect  that 
aur  labours  will  be  blessed,  and  that  we  shall  be  blessed  in 
them.  As  your  habits  generally  have  been  averse  to  what  is 
called  close  application,  it  will  be  too  much  for  your  strength, 
as  well  as  unadvisable  in  other  points  of  view,  to  study  very 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


89 


intensely ;  but  regularly  you  may,  and  must  read ;  and  depend 
upon  it,  a  man  will  work  more  wonders  by  stated  and  constant 
application,  than  by  unnatural  and  forced  endeavours. 
•  *         *  # 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Nottingham,  September,  1804. 

My  dear  Ben, 

By  the  time  you  will  open  this  letter,  we  shall  have 
parted,  God  only  knows  whether  ever  to  meet  again.  The 
chances  and  casualties  of  human  life  are  such  as  to  render  it 
always  questionable  whether  three  months  may  not  separate 
us  for  ever  from  an  absent  friend. 

*  *  *  * 

Eor  my  part,  I  shall  feel  a  vacuum  when  you  are  gone, 
which  will  not  easily  be  filled  up.  I  shall  miss  my  only 
intimate  friend — the  companion  of  my  walks — the  interrupter 
of  my  evening  studies.    I  shall  return,  in  a  great  measure, 

to  my  old  solitary  habits.    I  cannot  associate  with  ,  nor 

yet  with   ;    has  no  place  in  my  affections,  though 

he  has  in  my  esteem.  It  was  to  you  alone  I  looked  as  my 
adopted  brother,  and  (although  for  reasons  you  may  hereafter 
learn,  I  have  not  made  you  my  perfect  confidant)  my  com- 
forter.— Heu  mihi  Amice  Yale,  longum  Vale !  I  hope  you 
will  sometimes  think  of  me,  and  give  me  a  portion  in  your 
prayers. 

*  #         #  # 

Perhaps  it  may  be  that  I  am  not  formed  for  friendship,  that 
I  expect  more  than  can  ever  be  found.  Time  will  tutor  me : 
I  am  a  singular  being,  under  a  common  outside.  I  am  a  pro- 
found dissembler  of  my  inward  feelings,  and  necessity  has 
taught  me  the  art.  I  am  long  before  I  can  unbosom  to  a 
friend,  yet  I  think  I  am  sincere  in  my  friendship  :  you  must 
not  attribute  this  to  any  suspiciousness  of  nature,  but  must 
consider  that  I  lived  seventeen  years  my  own  confidant,  my 
own  friend,  full  of  projects  and  strange  thoughts,  and  confiding 


LETTERS  OP 


them  to  no  one.  I  am  habitually  reserved,  and  habitually 
cautious  in  letting  it  be  seen  that  I  hide  anything.  Towards 
you  I  would  fain  conquer  these  habits,  and  this  is  one  step 
towards  effecting  the  conquest. 

T  am  not  well,  Ben,  to-night,  as  my  hand-writing  and  style 
will  show ;  I  have  rambled  on,  however,  to  some  length ;  my 
letter  may  serve  to  beguile  a  few  moments  on  your  way.  I 
must  say  good  bye  to  you,  and  may  God  bless  you,  and  pre- 
serve you,  and  be  your  guide  and  director  for  ever.  Remember 
he  is  always  with  you ;  remember  that  in  him  you  have  a 
comforter  in  every  gloom.  In  your  wakeful  nights,  when  you 
have  not  me  to  talk  to,  his  ear  will  be  bent  down  to  your 
pillow ;  what  better  bosom  friend  has  a  man  than  the  merciful 
and  benignant  Father  of  all  ?  Happy,  thrice  happy,  are  you 
in  the  privilege  of  Ins  grace  and  acceptance. 

Dear  ]3en, 
I  am  your  true  friend, 

H.  K.  White. 


TO  MR.  K.  SWANN. 

High  Pavement,  October  4th,  1804. 

Deah  Ejeke, 

*  *  *  * 

For  your  kind  and  very  valuable  present,  I  know  not  how 
to  thank  you.  The  Archbishop*  has  long  been  one  of  my 
most  favourite  divines;  and  a  complete  set  of  his  sermons 
really  "sets  one  up."  I  hope  I  am  able  to  appreciate  the 
merits  of  such  a  collection,  and  I  shall  always  value  them 
apart  from  their  merit,  as  a  memento  of  friendship. 

I  hope  that,  when  our  correspondence  begins,  it  will  neither 
be  lax  nor  uninteresting ;  and  that,  on  both  sides,  it  may  be 
productive  of  something  more  than  mere  amusement. 

While  we  each  strive  to  become  wiser  in  those  things 
wherein  true  wisdom  is  alone  to  be  found,  we  may  mutually 
contribute  to  each  other's  success,  by  the  communication  of 


*  Tillo-eon. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


91 


our  thoughts:  and  that  we  may  both  become  proficients  in 
that  amiable  philosophy  which  makes  us  happier  by  rendering 
us  better ;  that  philosophy  which  alone  makes  us  wise  unto 
salvation,  is  the  prayer  of, 

Dear  Kirke, 
Your  sincere  friend, 

Henry  Kirke  White, 


TO  MR.  JOHN  C H  AR LE SWO RTH. 

Winteringham,  1804. 

*Amice  Dilecte, 

Pucleret  me  infrequentise  nostrarum  literarum,  nisi  hoc  ex 
te  pendere  sentirem.  Epistolas  a  te  missas  non  prius  accepi 
quam  kalendis  Decembris — res  mihi  acerba,  nihilominus  ad 
ferendum  levior,  dum  me  non  tibi  ex  animo  prorsus  excidisse 
satis  exploratum  est. 

Gasivus  sum,  h  litteris  tuis  amico  Roberto  dicatis,  cum 
audirem  te  operam  et  dedisse  et  daturum  ad  Groecam  linguam 
etiamnum  excolendam  cum  viro  omni  doctrina  erudito. — Satis 
scio  te,  illo  duce,  virum  doctissimum  et  in  optimarum  artimn 
studiis  exquisitissimum  futurum  esse :  hand  tamen  his  facul- 
tatibus  contentum,  sed  altiora  petentem,  nempe  salutem 
humani  generis  et  sancta  verbi  divini  arcana. 

Yixjam,  amice!  recreor  e  morbo,  a  quo  graviter  segrotavi: 
vix  jam  incipio  membra  languore  confecta  in  diem  apertam 
trahere.  Tactus  arida  manu  febris  spatiosas  trivi  noctcs 
lacrymis  et  gemitu.  Yidi  cum  in  conspectu  mortis  collocatus 
fuerim,  vidi  omnia  clariora  facta,  intellexi  me  non  fidem  Chrisii 
satis  servasse,  non  ut  famulum  Dei  fideliter  vitam  egisse. 
iEgritudo  multa  prius  celata  patefacit.  Hoc  ipse  sensi  et 
omnes,  sint  sane  religiosi  sint  boni,  idem  sentient.  Sed  ego 
prcecipue  causam  habui  cur  me  afflixerim  et  summisso  animo 
ad  pedem  crucis  abjecerim.    Imo  vero  et  lacrymas  copiose 

*  This  letter  is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  specimen  of  Henry's 
Latinity.  It  was  written  when  he  was  only  beginning  those  classical 
studies  in  which  he  afterwards  made  such  progress. 


92 


LETTERS  OP 


effudi  et  inter dum  consolatio  Sancti  Spiritus  turbinem  anitrri 
placavit.  Utinam  vestigium  hujus  periculi  semper  in  animo 
retineam ! 

Non  dubito  qnin  tibi  gratum  erit  audire  de  moribus  et 
studiis  nostris.  Prseceptor  nobis,  nomine  Grainger,  non  e 
collegio  educatus  fuit,  attamen  doctrina  haud  mediocris  est, 
pietate  eximius.  Hypodidascalus  fuit  in  schola  viri  istius 
docti  et  admodum  venerandi  Josephi  Milner,  qui  eum  dilexit 
atque  honoravit.  Mores  jucundi  et  faciles  sunt,  urbanitate  ac 
lepore  suaviter  conditi,  quanquam  interdum  in  vultu  tristis 
severitas  inest.  Erga  bonos  mansuetus,  malis  se  durior  gerit. — 
iEque  fere  est  Pastor  diligens,  vir  egregius,  et  prseceptor 
bonus.  Cum  isthoc  legimus  apud  Grsecos,  Homerum  et  De- 
mosthenem  et  Sanctas  Scripturas,  apud  Latinos  Virgilium, 
Ciceronem  et  aliquando  in  ludo  Terentium.  Scribimus  etiam 
Latine,  et  construction^  et  elegantise  gratia ;  nihilominus  (hac 
epistola  teste)  non  opus  est  dicendi  tibi  quam  paululum  ego 
ipse  proficio.  In  scribendo  Latine,  prseter  consuetudinem  in 
lingua  Anglicana,  sum  lentus,  piger,  ineptus.  Yerba  stillant 
heu  quam  otiose,  et  quum  tandem  visa  sint  quam  inelegantia ! 
Spero  tamen  usu  atque  animo  diligenter  adhibendo  deinde 
Latinis  sermonibus  aliquam  adipisci  facilitatem,  nunc  fere 
oportet  me  contentum  esse  cupire  et  laborare,  paululum  poti- 
undo,  magna  moliendo. 

Intelligis,  procul  dubio,  nos  vicum  incolere  Wintering- 
hamiensis,  ripis  situm  Humberi  fluminis,  sed  nondum  forsan 
sentias  locum  esse  agrestem,  fluviis,  collibus,  arvis,  omni 
decore  pervenustum.  Domus  nostra  Templo  Dei  adjacet ;  a 
tergo  sunt  dulces  borti  et  terrenus  agger  arboribus  crebre 
septus,  quo  deambulare  solemus.  Circumcirca  sunt  rurales 
pagi  quibus  ssepe  cum  otium  agamus,  post  prandium  imus. 
Est  villa,  nomine  Whittonia,  ubi  a  celsa  rupe  videre  potes 
flumen  Trentii  vasto  Humbero  innuentem,  et  paulo  altius 
Oosem  flumen. 

Infra  sub  opaca  saxa  fons  est  cui  potestas  inest  in  lapidem 
materias  alienas  convertendi ;  ab  altissima  rupe  labitur  in  litus, 
muschum,  conchas  et  fragiliores,  ramos  arborum  in  lapidem 
transmutans.      In  prospectu  domus  montes  Eboracenses 


HENRY  KlftKE  WHITE. 


93 


surgunt  trans  Humberum  siti,  sylvis  et  villi  s  stipati,  nunc 
solis  radiis  ridentes,  nunc  horridi  nimbis  ac  procellis.  Yela 
navium  ventis  impleta  ante  fenestras  satis  longo  intervallo 
prolabuntur:  dum  supra  in  aere  procelso  greges  anserum 
vastse  longo  clamore  volitant.  Ssepe  in  animo  revolvo  verba 
ista  Homeri : 

isMJT   OpV&lOV  TTtTEY}Vb)V  Wvsa  7ToXXd 

'KrfViov  ri  yepdviov,  r\  kvkvwv,  dovXixodiipujv, 

iA(j'u>)  sv  XtifAiDvi  Kavvroiov  afi(j)i  pUOpa 

h'6u  Kai  evQd  TroT&vrai  ayaXXdfitvoi  7rrtpvyeu(Ti 

KXayyrjdov  7rpOKa9i^6vTojv,  (Tfiapayn  Se  re  XeifAwv, 

Qg  tCjv  WvEa  irvXXd  vtutv  diro  Kai  icXiGidiov 

'Eg  nto'iov  irpoyiovTo  ^,KafJidv8piov,  &c. 

*  *  *  * 

Yale.    Dum  vitales  auras  carpam, 

Tuus, 

H.  K.  White. 


TO  MR.  K.  SWANN. 

Winteringham,  20th  Oct.,  1804. 

Dear  Kirke, 

We  are  safely  arrived,  and  comfortably  settled,  in  the 
parsonage  of  Winteringham.  The  house  is  most  delightfully 
situated  close  by  the  church,  at  a  distance  from  the  village, 
and  with  delightful  gardens  behind,  and  the  Humber  before. 
The  family  is  very  agreeable,  and  the  style  in  which  we  live  is 
very  superior.  Our  tutor  is  not  only  a  learned  man,  but  the 
best  pastor  and  most  pleasing  domestic  man  I  ever  met  with. 
You  will  be  srlad  to  hear  we  are  thus  charmingly  situated.  I 
have  reason  to  thank  God  for  his  goodness  in  leading  me  to 
so  peaceful  and  happy  a  situation. 

The  year  which  now  lies  before  me,  I  shall,  with  the 
blessing  of  God,  if  I  am  spared,  employ  in  very  important 
pursuits ;  and  I  trust  that  I  shall  come  away  not  only  a  wiser 
but  a  better  man.  I  have  here  nothing  to  interrupt  me — no 
noise — no  society  to  disturb,  or  avocations  to  call  me  oft,  and 
if  I  do  not  make  considerable  improvements,  I  do  not  know 
wuen  I  shall. 


94 


LETTERS  OF 


"We  have  each  our  several  duties  to  perform ;  and  though 
God  has  been  pleased  to  place  us  in  very  different  walks  of 
life,  yet  we  may  mutually  assist  each  other  by  counsel,  by 
admonition,  and  by  prayer.  My  calling  is  of  a  nature  the  most 
arduous  and  awful ;  I  need  every  assistance  from  above,  and 
from  my  companions  in  the  flesh ;  and  no  advice  will  ever  be 
esteemed  lightly  by  me,  which  proceeds  from  a  servant  of  God> 
however  trifling,  or  however  ill-expressed.  If  your  immediate 
avocations  be  less  momentous,  and  less  connected  with  the 
world  to  come,  your  duty  is  not  the  less  certain,  or  the  more 
lightly  to  be  attended  to — you  are  placed  in  a  situation 
wherein  God  expects  from  you  according  to  your  powers,  as- 
well  as  from  me  in  mine  :  and  there  are  various  dark  and  occult 
temptations,  of  which  you  are  little  aware,  but  into  which  you 
may  easily  and  imperceptibly  fall,  unless  upheld  by  the  arm  of 
Almighty  God.  You  stand  in  need,  therefore,  to  exercise  a 
constant  reliance  on  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  its  influences,  and  to 
watch  narrowly  your  own  heart,  that  it  conceive  no  secret  sin ; 
for  although  your  situation  be  not  so  dangerous,  nor  your 
duties  so  difficult,  yet,  as  the  masks  which  Satan  assumes  are 
various,  you  may  still  find  cause  for  spiritual  fear  and  sorrow, 
and  occasion  for  trembling,  lest  you  should  not  have  exercised 
your  talents  in  proportion  to  their  extent.  It  is  a  valuable 
observation,  that  there  is  no  resting-place  in  the  spiritual 
progress — we  must  either  go  backward  or  forward,  and  when 
we  are  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  our  motion  be  onward  or 
retrograde,  we  may  rest  assured,  that  there  is  something  want- 
ing which  must  be  supplied — some  evil  yet  lurking  in  the 
heart,  or  some  duty  slightly  performed. 

You  remember  I  heard  JMr.  ,  on  the  night  previous  to 

my  departure ;  I  did  not  say  much  on  his  mamier,  but  I  thought 
it  neat,  and  the  sermon  far  better  than  I  expected :  but  I  must 
not  be  understood  to  approve  altogether  of  Mr.  's  preach- 
ing. I  think,  in  particular,  he  has  one  great  fault,  that  is 
elegance — he  is  not  sufficiently  plain.  Remember,  we  do  not 
mount  the  pulpit  to  say  fine  things,  or  eloquent  things ;  we 
have  there  to  proclaim  the  good  tidings  of  salvation  to  fallen 
man ;  to  point  out  the  way  of  eternal  life ;  to  exhort,  to  cheer, 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


and  to  support  the  suffering  sinner:  these  are  the  glorious 
topics  upon  which  we  have  to  enlarge — and  will  these  permit 
the  tricks  of  oratory,  or  the  studied  beauties  of  eloquence  ? 
Shall  truths  and  counsels  like  these  be  couched  in  terms  which 
the  poor  and  ignorant  cannot  comprehend  ? — Let  all  eloquent 
preachers  beware,  lest  they  fill  any  man's  ear  with  sounding 
words,  when  they  should  be  feeding  his  soul  with  the  bread  of 
everlasting  life !  Let  them  fear,  lest,  instead  of  honouring 
God,  they  honour  themselves  !  If  any  man  ascend  the  pulpit 
with  the  intention  of  uttering  &fine  thing,  he  is  committing  a 
deadly  sin.  Remember,  however,  that  there  is  a  medium,  and 
that  vulgarity  and  meanness  are  cautiously  to  be  shunned; 
but  while  we  speak  with  propriety  and  chastity,  we  cannot  be 
too  familiar  or  too  plain.  I  do  not  intend  to  apply  these 
remarks  to  Mr.  individually,  but  to  the  manner  of  preach- 
ing here  alluded  to.  If  his  manner  be  such  as  I  have  here 
described,  the  observations  will  also  fit ;  but,  if  it  be  otherwise, 
the  remarks  refer  not  to  him,  but  to  the  style  reprobated. 
#  •sfc 

I  recommend  to  you,  always  before  you  begin  to  study,  to 
pray  to  God  to  enlighten  your  understanding,  and  give  you 
grace  to  behold  all  things  through  the  medium  of  religion. 
This  was  always  the  practice  in  the  old  Universities,  and,  I 
believe,  is  the  only  way  to  profit  by  learning. 

I  can  now  only  say  a  few  words  to  you,  since  our  regular 
hour  of  retiring  fast  approaches.  I  hope  you  are  making  pro- 
gress in  spiritual  things,  proportionably  to  your  opportunities, 
and  that  you  are  sedulously  endeavouring  not  only  to  secure 
your  own  acceptation,  but  to  impart  the  light  of  truth  to  those 
around  you  who  still  remain  in  darkness. 

Pray  let  me  hear  from  you  at  your  convenience,  and  my 
brother  will  forward  the  letter ;  and  believe  me, 
My  dear  Kirke, 
Your  friend,  and  fellow-traveller  in  the 

Tearful  sojourn  of  life, 

H.  K.  White. 


LETTERS  OF 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Winteringham,  Dec.  16th,  18(H. 

My  deae,  Mother, 

Since  I  wrote  to  you  last  I  have  been  rather  ill,  having 
caught  cold,  which  brought  on  a  slight  fever.  Thanks  to  excel- 
lent nursing,  I  am  now  pretty  much  recovered,  and  only  want 
strength  to  be  perfectly  re-established.  Mr.  Grainger  is  him- 
self a  very  good  physician,  but  when  I  grew  worse,  he  deemex 
it  necessary  to  send  for  a  medical  gentleman  from  Barton ;  so 
that,  in  addition  to  my  illness,  I  expect  an  apothecary's  bill 
This,  however,  will  not  be  a  very  long  one,  as  Mr.  Grainget 
has  chiefly  supplied  me  with  drugs.  It  is  judged  absolutely 
necessary  that  I  should  take  wine,  and  that  I  should  ride.  It 
is  with  very  great  reluctance  that  I  agree  to  incur  these  addi- 
tional expenses,  and  I  shall  endeavour  to  cut  them  off  as  soon 
as  possible.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grainger  have  behaved  like  parents 
to  me  since  I  have  been  ill :  four  and  five  times  in  the  night 
has  Mr.  G.  come  to  see  me ;  and  had  I  been  at  home,  I  could 
not  have  been  treated  with  more  tenderness  and  care.  Mrs. 
Grainger  has  insisted  on  my  drinking  their  wine,  and  was  very 
angry  when  I  made  scruples ;  but  I  cannot  let  them  be  at  all 
tins  additional  expense — in  some  way  or  other  I  must  pay 
them,  as  the  sum  I  now  give,  considering  the  mode  in  which 
we  are  accommodated,  is  very  trifling.  Mr.  Grainger  does  net 
keep  a  horse,  so  that  I  shall  be  obliged  to  hire  one ;  but  thera 
will  be  no  occasion  for  this  for  any  length  of  time,  as  m^ 
strength  seems  to  return  as  rapidly  as  it  was  rapidly  reduced. 
Don't  make  yourself  in  the  least  uneasy  about  this,  I  pray,  as 
I  am  quite  recovered,  and  not  at  all  apprehensive  of  any  conse- 
quences. I  have  no  cough,  nor  any  symptom  which  might 
indicate  an  affection  of  the  lungs.   1  read  very  little  at  present. 

I  thought  it  necessary  to  write  to  you  on  this  subject  now, 
as  I  feared  you  might  have  an  exaggerated  account  from  Mr. 
Almond's  friends,  and  alarm  yourself. 

•         *  *  « 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


97 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Winteringham,  Dec.  27,  1304. 

My  dear  Brother, 

I  have  been  very  much  distressed  at  the  receipt  of  your 
letter,  accompanied  by  o-ne  from  my  mother,  one  from  my 
sister,  and  from  Mr.  Dashwood,  and  Kirke  Swann,  all  on  the 
same  subject ;  and,  greatly  as  I  feel  for  all  the  kindness  and 
affection  which  has  prompted  these  remonstrances,  I  am  quite 
harassed  with  the  idea  that  you  should  not  have  taken  my 
letter  as  a  plain  account  of  my  illness,  without  any  wish  to 
hide  from  you  that  I  had  been  ill  somewhat  seriously,  but  that 
I  was  indeed  better. 

I  can  now  assure  you,  that  I  am  perfectly  recovered,  and 
am  as  well  as  I  have  been  for  some  time  past.  My  sickness 
was  merely  a  slight  lever,  rather  of  a  nervous  kind,  brought 
on  by  a  cold,  and  soon  yielded  to  the  proper  treatment.  1  do 
assure  you,  simply  and  plainly,  that  I  am  now  as  well  as  ever. 

With  regard  to  study,  I  do  assure  you  that  Mr.  Grainger 
will  not  suffer  us  to  study  at  all  hard ;  our  work  at  present  is 
mere  play.  I  am  always  in  bed  at  ten  o'clock,  and  take  two 
walks  in  the  day,  besides  riding,  when  the  weather  will  permit. 

Under  these  circumstances,  my  dear  brother  may  set  his 
mind  perfectly  at  case.  Even  change  of  air  sometimes  occa- 
sions violent  attacks,  but  they  leave  the  patient  better  than 
they  found  him. 

I  still  continue  to  drink  wine,  though  I  am  convinced  them 
s  no  necessity  for  it.  My  appetite  is  amazingly  large — much 
larger  than  when  at  Nottingham. 

I  shall  come  to  an  arrangement  with  Mr.  Grainger  imme- 
diately, and  I  hope  you  will  not  write  to  him  about  it.  If  Mr. 
Eddy,  the  surgeon,  thinks  it  at  all  necessary  for  me  to  do  this 
constantly,  I  declare  t-o  vou  that  I  will ;  but  remember,  if  I 
should  form  a  habit  of  this  now,  it  may  be  a  disadvantage  to 
me  when  possibly  circumstances  may  render  it  inconvenient — 
as  when  I  am  at  college. 

My  spirits  are  completely  knocked  up  by  the  receipt  of  all 
the  letters  I  have  at  one  moment  received.    My  mother  got  a 
u 


98 


LETTERS  OP 


gentleman  to  mention  it  to  Mr.  Dashwood,  and  still  repre- 
senting that  my  illness  was  occasioned  by  study — a  tiling  than 
which  nothing  can  be  more  remote  from  the  truth,  as  I  have, 
from  conscientious  motives,  given  up  hard  study  until  I  shall 
find  my  health  better. 

I  cannot  write  more,  as  I  have  the  other  letters  to  answer. 
I  am  going  to  ride  to  Barton,  expressly  to  get  advantage  oi 
the  post  for  this  day,  in  order  that  you  may  no  longer  give 
yourself  a  moment's  uneasiness,  where  there  is  in  reality  no 
occasion. 

Give  my  affectionate  love  to  James,  and  believe  me, 
My  dear  Neville, 
Your  truly  affectionate  brother, 

H.  K.  White. 
One  thing  I  had  forgotten — you  mention  my  pecuniary 
matters — you  make  me  blush  when  you  do  so.  You  may  rest 
assured  that  I  have  no  wants  of  that  kind,  nor  am  likely  to 
have  at  present.  Your  brotherly  love  and  anxiety  towards  me 
lias  sunk  deep  into  my  heart ;  and  you  may  satisfy  yourself 
with  this,  that  whatever  is  necessary  for  my  health  shall  not 
be  spared,  and  that  when  I  want  the  means  of  procuring  these, 
I  shall  think  it  my  duty  to  tell  you  so. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  JAMES. 

Midway  between  Winteringliam  untl  Hull, 
Jan.  Uth,  ISOf). 

"Dear  Jajies, 

You  will  not  be  surprised  at  the  style  of  this  letter,  when 
I  tell  you  it  is  written  in  the  Winteringham  Packet,  on  a  heap 
;  of  flour  bags,  and  surrounded  by  a  drove  of  fourteen  pigs,  who 
raise  the  most  hideous  roar  every  time  the  boat  rolls.  I  write 
with  a  silver  pen,  and  with  a  good  deal  of  shaking,  so  you 
■■  may  expect  very  bad  scribbling.  I  am  now  going  to  Hull, 
•  where  I  have  a  parcel  to  send  to  my  mother,  and  I  would  not 
lose  the  opportunity  of  writing. 

I  am  extremely  glad  that  you  are  attentive  to  matters  of 


HENHY  KIEKE  WHITE. 


99 


such  moment  as  are  those  of  religion ;  and  I  hope  you  do  not 
relax  in  your  seriousness,  but  continue  to  pray  that  God  will 
enable  you  to  walk  in  the  paths  of  righteousness,  which  alone 
lead  to  peace.  He  alone,  my  dear  James,  is  able  to  give  you 
a  heart  to  delight  in  his  service,  and  to  set  at  nought  the 
temptations  of  the  world.  It  may  seem  to  you,  in  the  first 
beginning  of  your  Christian  progress,  that  religion  wears  a  very 
unpromising  aspect,  and  that  the  gaieties  of  the  world  are 
indeed  very  delicious;  but  I  assure  you,  from  what  I  have 
myself  experienced,  that  the  pleasures  of  piety  are  infinitely 
more  exquisite  than  those  of  fashion  and  of  sensual  pursuits. 
It  is  true,  they  are  not  so  violent  or  so  intoxicating  (for  they 
consist  in  one  even  tenour  of  mind,  a  lightness  of  heart,  and 
sober  cheerfulness,  which  none  but  those  who  have  expe- 
rienced can  conceive) ;  but  they  leave  no  sting  behind  them ; 
they  give  pleasure  on  reflection,  and  will  soothe  the  mind  in 
the  distant  prospect.  And  who  can  say  this  of  the  world  or 
its  enjoyments? 

Even  those  who  seem  to  enter  with  the  most  spirit  into  the 
riotous  and  gaudy  diversions  of  the  world,  are  often  known  to 
confess  that  there  is  no  real  satisfaction  in  them ;  that  their 
gaiety  is  often  forced,  when  their  hearts  are  heavy ;  and  that 
they  envy  those  who  have  chosen  the  more  humble  but  pleasant 
paths  of  religion  and  virtue. 

I  am  not  at  all  particular  as  to  the  place  of  worship  you 
may  attend,  so  as  it  be  under  a  serious  preacher,  and  so  as  you 
attend  regularly.  I  should  think  it  a  very  good  exercise  for 
you,  if  you  were  to  get  a  blank  paper  book,  and  were  to  write 
down  in  it  anything  which  may  strike  you  in  the  sermons  you 
hear  on  a  Sunday ;  this  would  improve  your  style  of  writing, 
and  teach  you  to  think  on  what  you  hear.  Pray  endeavour  to 
carry  tins  plan  into  execution,  I  am  sure  you  will  find  it  worth 
the  trouble.  You  attend  the  church  now  and  then,  I  conclude, 
and  if  you  do,  I  should  wish  to  direct  your  attention  to  our 
admirable  liturgy,  and  avoid,  if  possible,  remarking  what  may 
seem  absurd  hi  the  maimer  it  is  repeated. 

I  must  not  conceal  from  you  that  I  am  very  sorry  you  do 
not  attend  some  eminent  minister  m  the  church,  such  as  Jfo# 


100 


LETTERS  OF 


Cecil,  or  Mr.  Pratt,  or  Mr.  Crowthcr,  in  preference  to  the 
meeting;  since  I  am  convinced  a  man  runs  less  danger  of 
being  misled  or  of  building  on  false  foundations  in  the  establish- 
ment than  out,  and  this  too  for  plain  reasons :  dissenters  are 
apt  to  think  they  are  religious,  because  they  are  dissenters — 
"  for,"  argue  they,  "  if  we  had  not  a  regard  for  religion,  why 
should  we  leave  the  establishment  at  all  ?  The  very  act  of 
leaving  it  shows  we  have  a  regard  for  religion,  because  we 
manifest  an  aversion  to  its  abuses."  Besides  this,  at  the 
meeting-house  you  are  not  likely  to  hear  plain  and  unwelcome 
truths  so  honestly  told  as  in  the  church,  where  the  minister  is 
not  so  dependent  on  his  flock,  and  the  prayers  are  so  properly 
selected,  that  you  will  meet  with  petitions  calculated  for  all 
your  wants,  bodily  and  spiritual,  without  being  left  at  the 
mercy  oi  the  minister  to  pray  for  what  and  in  what  manner  he 
likes.  Remember  these  are  not  offered  as  reasons  why  you 
should  always  attend  the  church,  but  to  put  you  in  mind  that 
there  are  advantages  there  which  you  should  avail  yourself  of, 
instead  of  making  invidious  comparisons  between  the  two 
institutions. 

*         *         *  » 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

Winleringliam,  Jan.  31st,  1805. 

Deaii  Ben, 

I  have  long  been  convinced  of  the  truth  of  what  you  say, 
respecting  the  effects  of  close  reading  on  a  man's  mind,  in  a 
religious  point  of  view,  and  I  am  more  and  more  convinced 
that  literature  is  very  rarely  the  source  of  satisfaction  of  mind 
to  a  Christian.  I  would  wish  you  to  steer  clear  of  too 
abstracted  and  subtle  a  mode  of  thinking  and  reasoning,  and 
you  will  so  be  happier  than  your  friend.  A  relish  lor  books 
will  be  a  sweet  source  of  amusement  and  a  salutary  relaxation 
to  you  throughout  life ;  but  let  it  not  be  more  than  a  relish, 
it  you  value  your  own  peace.  I  think,  however,  that  you 
ought  to  strengthen  you)'  mind  a  little  with  logic,  and  for  tins 
purpose  I  would  advise  yon  to  go  through  Euclid  with  sedulous 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


10L 


and  serious  attention,  and  likewise  to  read  Duncan  through. 
You  are  too  desultory  a  reader,  and  regard  amusement  too 
much;  if  you  wish  your  reading  in  good  earnest  to  amuse 
you,  when  you  are  old,  as  well  as  now  in  your  youth,  you  will 
take  care  to  form  a  taste  for  substantial  and  sound  authors, 
and  will  not  be  the  less  eager  to  study  a  work  because  it 
requires  a  little  labour  to  understand  it. 

After  you  have  read  Euclid,  and  amused  yourself  with 
Locke's  sublime  speculations,  you  will  derive  much  pleasure 
from  Butler's  Analogy,  without  exception  the  most  unan- 
swerable demonstration  of  the  folly  of  infidelity  that  the  world 
ever  saw. 

Books  like  these  will  give  you  more  strength  of  mind,  and 
consistent  firmness,  than  cither  you  or  I  now  possess ;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  effeminate  Panada  of  Magazines, 
Tales,  and  the  tribe  of  penny-catching  pamphlets,  of  which 
desultory  readers  are  so  fond,  only  tend  to  enervate  the  mind, 
and  incapacitate  it  for  every  species  of  manly  exertion. 

^  ^? 

I  continue  to  be  better  in  health,  although  the  weather  is  a 
great  obstacle  to  my  taking  a  proper  proportion  of  exercise. 
I  have  had  a  trip  to  Hull  of  late,  and  saw  the  famous  painter 

K  there,  with  whom  I  had  a  good  deal  of  talk.    He  is  a 

pious  man  and  a  great  astronomer;  but  in  manners  and 
appearance  a  complete  artist.  I  rather  think  he  is  inclined  to 
Hutchinsonian  principles,  and  entertains  no  great  reverence 
for  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 


TO  MR.  B.  HADDOCK. 

Winteringham,  1st  March,  1805. 

My  dear  Ben, 

#         *         *  * 
I  hope  and  trust  that  you  have  at  length  arrived  at  that 
happy  temperament  of  disposition,  that,  although  you  have 
much  cause  of  sadness  within,  you  are  yet  willing  to  be  amused 
with  the  variegated  scenes  around  you,  and  to  join,  when  occa- 


102 


LETTERS  OF 


sions  present  tliemselvss,  in  innocent  mirth.  Tims,  in  the 
course  of  your  peregrinations,  occurrences  must  Continually 
arise,  which,  to  a  mind  willing  to  make  the  best  of  everything, 
will  afford  amusement  of  the  chastest  kind.  Men  and  manners 
are  a  never-failing  source  of  wonder  and  surprise,  as  thej 
present  themselves  in  their  various  phases.  We  may  very 
innocently  laugh  at  the  brogue  of  a  Somerset  peasant— and  I 
should  think  that  person  both  cynical  and  surly,  who  could 
pass  by  a  group  of  laughing  children,  without  participating'  in 
their  delight,  and  joining  in  their  laugh.  It  is  a  truth  most 
undeniable,  and  most  melancholy,  that  there  is  too  much  in 
human  life  which  extorts  tears  and  groans,  rather  than  smiles. 
This,  however,  is  equally  certain,  that  our  giving  way  to  unre- 
mitting sadness  on  these  accounts,  so  far  from  ameliorating  the 
condition  of  mortality,  only  adds  to  the  aggregate  of  human 
misery,  and  throws  a  gloom  over  those  moments  when  a  ray 
of  light  is  permitted  to  visit  the  dark  valley  of  life,  and  the 
heart  ought  to  be  making  the  best  of  its  fleeting  happiness. 
Landscape,  too,  ought  to  be  a  source  of  delight  to  you ;  fine 
buildings,  objects  of  nature,  and  a  thousand  things  which  it 
would  be  tedious  to  name.  I  should  call  the  man  who  could 
survey  such  things  as  these  without  being  affected  with  plea- 
sure, either  a  very  weak-minded  and  foolish  person,  or  one  of 
no  mind  at  all.  To  be  always  sad,  and  always  pondering  on 
internal  griefs,  is  what  I  call  utter  selfishness :  I  would  not 
give  two-pence  for  a  being  who  is  locked  up  in  his  own  suffer- 
ings, and  whose  heart  cannot  respond  to  the  exhilarating  cry 
of  nature,  or  rejoice  because  he  sees  others  rejoice.  The  loud 
and  unanimous  chirping  of  the  birds  on  a  fine  sunny  morning, 
pleases  me,  because  I  see  they  are  happy :  and  I  should  be 
very  selfish,  did  1  not  participate  in  their  seeming  joy.  Do 
not,  however,  suppose  that  I  mean  to  exclude  a  man's  own 
sorrows  from  his  thoughts,  since  that  is  an  impossibility,  and, 
were  it  possible,  would  be  prejudicial  to  the  human  heart.  I 
only  mean  that  the  whole  mind  is  not  to  be  incessantly 
engrossed  with  its  cares,  but  with  cheerful  elasticity  to  bend 
itself  occasionally  to  circumstances,  and  give  way  without 
hesitation  to  pleasing  emotions.  To  be  pleased  with  little,  is 
one  of  the  greatest  blessing 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


103 


Sadness  is  itself  sometimes  infinitely  more  pleasing  than 
joy ;  but  this  sadness  must  be  of  the  expansive  and  generous 
kind,  rather  referring  to  mankind  at  large,  than  the  individual ; 
and  this  is  a  feeling  not  incompatible  with  cheerfulness  and  a 
contented  spirit.    There  is  difficulty,  however,  in  setting 
bounds  to  a  pensive  disposition ;  I  have  felt  it,  and  I  have  felt 
that  I  am  not  always  adequate  to  the  task.   I  sailed  from  Hull 
to  Barton  the  day  before  yesterday,  on  a  rough  and  windy  day, 
in  a  vessel  filled  with  a  marching  regiment  of  soldiers :  the 
band  played  finely,  and  I  was  enjoying  the  many  pleasant 
emotions  which  the  water,  sky,  winds,  and  musical  instruments 
excited,  when  my  thoughts  were  suddenly  called  away  to  more 
melancholy  subjects.    A  girl,  genteelly  dressed,  and  with  a 
countenance  which,  for  its  loveliness,  a  painter  might  have 
copied  for  Hebe,  with  a  loud  laugh  seized  me  by  the  great  coat, 
and  asked  me  to  lend  it  her :  she  was  one  of  those  unhappy 
creatures  who  depend  on  the  brutal  and  licentious  for  a  bitter 
livelihood,  and  was  now  following  in  the  train  of  one  of  the 
officers.    I  was  greatly  affected  by  her  appearance  and  situa- 
tion, and  more  so  by  that  of  another  female  who  was  witli  her* 
and  who,  with  less  beauty,  had  a  wild  sorrowfulness  in  lieu 
face,  which  showed  she  knew  her  situation.    This  incident, 
apparently  trifling,  induced  a  train  of  reflections,  which  occu- 
pied me  fully  during  a  walk  of  six  or  seven  miles  to  our 
parsonage.    At  first  I  wished  that  I  had  fortune  to  erect  an 
asylum  for  all  the  miserable  and  destitute  : — and  there  was  a 
soldier's  wife,  with  a  wan  and  hagged  face,  and  a  little  infant 
in  her  arms,  whom  I  would  also  have  wished  to  place  in  it. 
I  then  grew  out  of  humour  with  the  world,  because  it  was  so 
unfeeling  and  so  miserable,  and  because  there  was  no  cure  for 
its  miseries ;  and  I  wished  for  a  lodging  in  the  wilderness, 
where  I  might  hear  no  more  of  wrongs,  affliction,  or  vice :  but, 
after  all  my  speculations,  I  found  there  was  a  reason  for  these 
things  in  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  that  to  those  who 
sought  it  there  was  also  a  cure.    So  I  banished  my  vain  medi- 
tations, and  knowing  that  God's  providence  is  better  able  to 
direct  the  affairs  of  men  than  our  wisdom — I  leave  them  in  his 
hands. 


104 


LETTERS  OF 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Winteringbam,  6th  Feb.,  1805. 

Dear  Mother, 

•Jfc  3fc  ^  ¥fc 

The  spectacles  for  my  father  are,  I  hope,  such  as  will  enable 
m'm  to  read  with  ease,  although  they  are  not  set  in  silver. 
If  they  hurt  him  through  stiffness,  I  think  the  better  way  will 
be  to  wear  them  with  the  tivo  end  joints  shut  to,  and  with  a 
piece  of  ribbon  to  go  round  the  back  of  the  head,  &c.  The 
Romanic's  Sermons,  and  the  cheap  tracts,  are  books  which  I 
thought  might  be  useful.  You  may  think  I  am  not  yet  privi- 
leged to  make  presents,  since  they  will  in  the  end  come  out  of 
your  pocket ;  but  I  am  not  in  want  of  cash  at  present,  and 
have  reason  to  believe,  from  my  own  calculations,  I  shall  not 
have  occasion  to  call  upon  you  for  what  I  know  you  can  so  ill 
spare.  I  was  quite  vexed  afterwards  that  I  did  not  send  you 
all  the  volumes  of  the  Cheap  Repository,  as  the  others,  which 
are  the  general  tracts,  and  such  as  are  more  entertaining, 
would  have  been  well  adapted  to  your  library.  When  I  next 
go  to  Hull,  1  purpose  buying  the  remaining  volumes ;  and 
when  I  next  have  occasion  to  send  a  parcel,  you  will  receive 
them.  The  volume  you  have  now  got  contains  all  the  Sunday 
reading  tracts,  and  on  that  account  I  sent  it  separately.  As  I 
have  many  tilings  to  remind  me  of  my  sister  Smith,  I  thought 
(though  we  neither  of  us  need  such  mementos)  that  she  would 
not  be  averse  to  receive  the  sermons  of  the  great  and  good, 
though  in  some  respects  singular,  llomaine,  at  my  hands,  as 
■what  old-fashioned  people  would  call  a  token  of  a  brother  s 
/ove,  but  what  in  more  courtly  phrase  is  denominated  a 
memento  of  affection. 

TO  MR.  SERJEANT  ROUGH. 

Winteringbam,  17tb  Feb.,  1805 

My  dear  Sin, 

I  blush  when  I  look  back  to  the  date  of  your  too  long 
unanswered  letter,  and  were  I  not  satisfied  that  the  contents 
of  my  sheet  of  post  must  always  be  too  unimportant  to  need 
apology,  I  should  now  make  one. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


105 


The  fine  and  spirited  song  (song  in  the  noblest  sense  of  the 
word)  which  you  sent  me,  on  the  projected  invasion,  demands 
my  best  thanks.  The  fervid  patriotism  which  animates  it, 
would,  I  think,  find  an  echo  in  every  bosom  in  England ;  and 
I  hope  and  trust  the  world  has  not  been  deprived  ot  so  appro- 
priate an  exhortation.  I  perceive,  however,  one  thing,  which 
is,  that  your  fire  has  been  crampt  by  the  "  crambo "  of  the 
rhyme,  at  all  times  a  grievous  shackle  to  poets,  and  yet 
capable  of  such  sweet  and  expressive  modulation,  as  makes 
us  hug  our  chains,  and  exult  in  the  hard  servitude.  My  poor 
neglected  muse  has  lain  absolutely  unnoticed  by  me  for  the 
last  four  months,  during  which  period  I  have  been  digging  in 
the  mines  of  Scapula  for  Greek  roots  ;  and,  instead  of  drink 
ing,  with  eager  delight,  the  beauties  of  Virgil,  have  been 
cutting  and  drying  his  phrases  for  future  use.  The  place 
where  I  live  is  on  the  banks  of  the  Humber ;  here  no  Sicilian 
river,  but  rough  with  cold  winds,  and  bordered  with  killing 
swamps.  What  with  neglect,  and  what  with  the  climate,  so 
congenial  to  rural  meditation,  I  fear  my  good  Genius,  who 
was  wont  to  visit  me  with  nightly  visions  "in  woods  and 
brakes,  and  by  the  river's  marge,"  is  now  dying  of  a  fen-ague ; 
and  I  shall  thus  probably  emerge  from  my  retreat,  not  a  hair- 
brained  son  of  imagination,  but  a  sedate  black-lettered  book- 
worm, with  a  head  like  an  etymologicon  magnum. 

Forgive  me  this  flippancy,  in  which  I  am  not  very  apt  to 
indulge,  and  let  me  offer  my  best  wishes  that  it  is  not  with 
your  muse  as  with  mine.  Eloquence  has  always  been  thought 
akin  to  poetry ;  though  her  efforts  are  not  so  effectually  per- 
petuated, she  is  not  the  less  honoured,  or  her  memory  the  less 
carefully  preserved.  Many  very  plausible  hypotheses  are 
contradicted  by  facts,  yet  I  should  imagine  that  the  genius 
which  prompted  your  "  Conspiracy 33  would  be  no  common 
basis  on  which  to  erect  a  superstructure  of  oratorical  fame. — 
"  Est  enim  oratori  finitimus  Poeta,  numeris  adstrictior  paulo, 
verborum  autem  licentia  liberior,  multis  vero  ornandi  generibus 
socius,  ac  pene  par/5  &c.  You,  no  doubt,  are  well  acquainted 
with  this  passage,  in  the  1st  Dial.  De  Orat.,  so  I  shall  not  go 
«n  with  it ;  but  I  encourage  a  hope,  that  I  shall  one  day  see 


106 


LETTERS  OF 


a  living  proof  of  the  truth  of  this  position  in  you.  Do  not 
quite  exclude  me  from  a  kind  of  fellow-feeling  with  you  in 
your  oratorical  pursuits,  for  you  know  I  must  make  myself  a 
lit  herald  for  the  important  message  I  am  ordained  to  deliver, 
and  I  shall  bestow  some  pains  to  this  end.  No  inducement 
whatever  should  prevail  on  me  to  enter  into  orders,  if  I  were 
not  thoroughly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  Religion  I  pro- 
fess, as  contained  in  the  New  Testament ;  and  I  hope  that 
whatever  I  know  to  be  the  truth,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to 
proclaim,  however  much  it  may  be  disliked  or  despised.  The 
discovery  of  Truth,  it  is  notorious,  ought  to  be  the  object  of 
all  true  philosophy ;  and  the  attainment  of  this  end  must,  to 
a  philosopher,  be  the  greatest  of  all  possible  blessings.  If 
then  a  man  be  satisfied  that  he  has  arrived  at  the  fountain- 
head  of  pure  Truth,  and  yet,  because  the  generality  of  men 
hold  different  sentiments,  dares  not  avow  it,  but  tacitly  gives 
assent  to  falsehood,  he  withholds  from  men  what,  according 
to  his  principles,  it  is  for  their  good  to  know — he  prefers  his 
personal  good  to  Truth — and  he  proves  that,  whatever  he  may 
profess,  he  is  not  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  true  Philosophy. 

I  have  some  intention  of  becoming  a  candidate  for  Sir  Wil- 
liam Brown's  medals  this  year ;  and  if  I  should,  it  would  be  a 
great  satisfaction  to  me  to  subject  my  attempts  to  so  good  a 
classic  as  I  understand  you  to  be.  In  the  mean  time,  you  will 
confer  a  real  favour  on  me,  if  you  will  transcribe  some  of  your 
Latin  verses  for  me,  as  I  am  anxious  to  see  the  general  character 
of  modern  Lathi  as  it  is  received  at  Cambridge ;  and  elegant 
verses  always  give  me  great  pleasure,  in  whatever  language  1 
read  them.    Such  I  know  yours  will  be. 

In  this  remote  comer  of  the  world,  where  we  have  neithei 
books  nor  booksellers,  I  am  as  ignorant  of  the  affairs  of  the 
literary  world  as  an  inhabitant  ot  Siberia.  Sometimes  the: 
newspaper  gives  me  seme  scanty  hints ;  but,  as  I  do  not  see  a 
review,  I  cannot  be  said  to  hold  converse  with  the  Republic* 
Pray  is  the  voice  of  the  Muses  quite  suspended  in  the  clang  of 
arms,  or  do  they  yet  sing,  though  unheeded?  All  literary 
information  will  be  to  me  quite  new  and  interesting ;  but  do 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE* 


107 


not  suppose  I  hope  to  intrude  on  your  more  valuable  time  with 
these  things.  When  you  shall  have  leisure,  I  hope  to  hear 
from  you ;  and  whatever  you  say,  coming  from  you,  it  cannot 
fail  to  interest. 

Believe  me,  dear  Sir, 

Very  sincerely,  yours, 

H.  K.  White, 


TO  MR.  K.  SWANN. 

Winteringham,  16th  March,  1805. 

Dear  Kirke, 

*         «         *  $ 

I  was  affected  by  the  death  of  young  B  .   He  once 

called  upon  me,  with  Mr.  H  ,  when  I  was  very  ill,  and  on 

that  occasion  Mr.  H  •  said  to  us  both,  "  Young  men,  I 

would  have  you  both  pack  off  to  Lisbon,  for  you  wont  last 

long  if  you  stay  here."    Mr.  was  then  about  to  set  out 

for  Hamburgh;  and  he  told  me  afterwards,  that  he  never 
expected  to  see  me  again,  for  that  he  thought  I  was  more 

desperately  gone  in  consumption  than  B  .    Yet  you  see 

how  the  good  providence  of  God  has  spared  me,  and  I  am  yet 
living,  as  I  trust,  to  serve  him  wTith  all  my  strength.  Had  I 
died  then,  I  should  have  perished  for  ever ;  but  I  have  now 
hope,  through  the  Lord  Jesus,  that  I  shall  see  the  day  of 
death  with  joy,  and  possibly  be  the  means  of  rescuing  others 
from  a  similar  situation.  I  certainly  thought  of  the  ministry 
at  first  with  improper  motives,  and  my  views  of  Christianity 
were  for  a  long  time  very  obscure;  but  I  have,  I  trust, 
gradually  been  growing  out  of  darkness  into  light,  and  I  feel 
a  well-grounded  hope,  that  God  has  sanctified  my  heart  for 
great  and  valuable  purposes.  Woe  be  unto  me  if  I  frustrate 
ins  designs. 


108 


LETTERS  OP 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Winterhigliam,  April,  1805. 

Dear  Neville, 

*  *  #  * 
You  wrote  me  a  long  sheet  this  last  time,  and  I  have 
every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  it,  yet  I  sometimes  wish  I 
could  make  you  write  closer  and  smaller.  Since  your  mind 
must  necessarily  be  now  much  taken  up  with  other  things,  I 
dare  not  press  my  former  inquiries  on  subjects  of  reading. 
When  your  leisure  season  comes,  I  shall  be  happy  to  hear 
from  you  on  these  topics. 

It  is  a  remark  of  an  ancient  philosophical  poet  (Horace), 
that  every  man  thinks  his  neighbour's  condition  happier  than 
his  own ;  and,  indeed,  common  experience  shows  that  we  are 
too  apt  to  entertain  romantic  notions  of  absent,  and  to  think 
meanly  of  present,  things ;  to  extol  what  we  have  had  nc 
experience  of,  and  to  be  discontented  with  what  we  possess. 
The  man  of  business  sighs  for  the  sweets  of  leisure :  the  person 
who,  with  a  taste  for  reading,  has  few  opportunities  for  it, 
thinks  that  man's  life  the  sum  of  bliss  who  has  nothing  to  do 
but  to  study.    Yet  it  often  happens  that  the  condition  of  the 
envier  is  happier  than  that  of  the  envied.    You  have  read  Dr. 
Johnson's  tale  of  the  poor  Tallow-chandler,  who,  after  sighing 
for  the  quiet  of  country  life,  at  length  scraped  money  enough 
to  retire,  but  found  Ins  long-souglit-for  leisure  so  insupportable, 
that  he  made  a  voluntary  offer  to  his  successor  to  come  up 
to  town  every  Eriday,  and  melt  tallow  for  him  gratis.  It  would 
foe  so  with  half  the  men  of  business,  who  sigh  so  earnestly  for 
the  sweets  of  retirement ;  and  you  may  receive  it  as  one  of  the 
maturest  observations  I  have  been  able  to  make  on  human  life, 
that  there  is  no  condition  so  happy  as  that  of  him  who  leads  a 
life  of  full  and  constant  employment.    His  amusements  have 
a  zest  which  men  of  pleasure  would  gladly  undergo  all  his 
drudgery  to  experience;  ana  the  regular  succession  of  business, 
provided  his  situation  be  not  too  anxious,  drives  away  from 
his  brain  those  harassing  speculations  which  are  continually 
assaulting  the  man  of  leisure,  and  the  man  of  reading.  The 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


109 


studious  man,  though  his  pleasures  are  of  the  most  refined 
species,  finds  cares  and  disturbing  thoughts  in  study.  To 
think  much  and  deeply  will  soon  make  a  man  sad.  His* 
thoughts,  ever  on  the  whig,  often  carry  him  where  he  shudders 
to  be  even  in  imagination.  He  is  like  a  man  in  sleep — some- 
times Ins  dreams  are  pleasing,  but  at  others  horror  itself  takes 
possession  of  his  imagination ;  and  this  inequality  of  mind  is 
almost  inseparable  from  much  meditation  and  mental  exercise. 
Prom  this  cause  it  often  happens,  that  lettered  and  philo- 
sophical men  are  peevish  in  their  tempers  and  austere  in  theii 
manners.  The  inference  I  would  draw  from  these  remarks  is< 
generally  this,  that  although  every  man  carries  about  him  the 
seeds  of  happiness  or  misery  in  his  own  bosom,  yet  it  is  a  truth 
not  liable  to  many  exceptions,  that  men  are  more  equally  free 
from  anxiety  and  care,  in  proportion  as  they  recede  from  the 
more  refined  and  mental,  to  the  grosser  and  bodily  employ- 
ments and  modes  of  life,  but  that  the  happiest  condition  is 
placed  in  the  middle,  between  the  extremes  ot  both.  Thus  a 
person  with  a  moderate  love  of  reading,  and  few  opportunities 
of  indulging  it,  would  be  inclined  to  envy  one  in  my  situation, 
because  such  a  one  has  nothing  to  do  but  to  read ;  but  I  could 
tell  him,  that  though  my  studious  pleasures  are  more  compre- 
hensive than  his,  they  are  not  more  exquisite,  and  that  an 
occasional  banquet  gives  more  delight  than  a  continual  feast. 
Reading  should  be  dearer  to  you  than  to  me,  because  I  always 
read,  and  you  but  seldom. 

Almond  and  I  took  a  small  boat  on  Monday,  and  set  out  for 
Hull,  a  distance  of  thirteen  miles,  as  some  compute  it,  though 
others  make  it  less.  We  went  very  merrily  with  a  good  pair 
of  oars,  until  we  came  within  four  miles  of  Hull,  when,  owing 
to  some  hard  working,  we  were  quite  exhausted ;  but  as  the 
tide  was  nearly  down,  and  the  shore  soft,  we  could  not  get  to 
any  villages  on  the  banks.  At  length  we  made  Hull,  and  just 
arrived  in  time  to  be  grounded  in  the  middle  of  the  harbour, 
without  any  possible  means  of  getting  ashore  till  the  llux  or 
flood.  As  we  were  half-famished,  I  determined  to  wade  ashore 
for  provisions,  and  had  the  satisfaction  ot  getting  above  the 
knees  in  mud  almost  every  step  I  made.   When  I  got  ashore 


110 


LETTERS  OF 


I  recollected  I  had  given  Almond  all  my  cash.  This  was  a 
terrible  dilemma— to  return  back  was  too  laborious,  and  I 
expected  the  tide  flowing  every  minute.  At  last  I  determined 
to  go  to  the  inn  where  we  usually  dine  when  we  go  to  Hull, 
and  try  how  much  credit  I  possessed  there,  and  I  happily  found 
no  difficulty  in  procuring  refreshments,  which  I  carried  off  in 
triumph  to  the  boat.  Here  new  difficulties  occurred ;  for  the 
tide  had  flowed  in  considerably  during  my  absence,  although 
not  sufficiently  to  move  the  boat,  so  that  my  wade  was  much 
worse  back  than  it  had  been  before.  On  our  return,  a  most 
placid  and  calm  day  was  converted  into  a  cloudy  one,  and  we 
had  a  brisk  gale  in  our  teeth.  Knowing  we  were  quite  safe, 
we  struck  across  from  Hull  to  Barton ;  and  when  we  were  off 
Hazel  Whelps,  a  place  which  is  always  rough,  we  had  some 
tremendous  swells,  which  we  weathered  admirably,  and 
(bating  our  getting  on  the  wrong  side  of  a  bank,  owing  to 
the  deceitful  appearance  of  the  coast)  we  had  a  prosperous 
voyage  home,  having  rowed  twenty-six  miles  in  less  than  five 
hours. 

*         *         *  # 


TO  MR.  K.  SWANN. 

Winteringham,  April  6tb,  1805. 

My  deau  Kikke, 

$  m  *  & 
Your  complaint  of  the  lukewarmness  of  your  affections 
towards  spiritual  things,  is  a  very  common  one  with  Cliristians. 
We  all  feel  it ;  and  if  it  be  attended  with  an  earnest  desire  to 
acquit  ourselves  in  this  respect,  and  to  recover  our  wonted 
fervour,  it  is  a  complaint  indicative  of  our  faithfuhiess.  In 
cases  of  Christian  experience,  I  submit  my  own  opinion  to 
anybody's,  and  have  too  serious  a  distrust  of  it  myself  to  offer 
it  as  a  rule  or  maxim  of  unquestionable  authority;  but  I 
have  found,  and  think,  that  the  best  remedy  against  luke- 
warmness is  an  obstinate  persisting  in  prayer  until  our  affec- 
tions be  moved,  and  a  regular  habit  of  going  to  religious 
duties  with  a  prepared  and  meek  heart,  thinking  more  of 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


Ill 


obtaining  communion  with  God  than  of  spending  so  many 
minutes  in  seeking  it.  Thus,  when  we  pray,  we  must  not  kneel 
down  with  the  idea  that  we  are  to  spend  so  many  minutes  in 
supplication,  and  after  the  usual  time  has  elapsed,  go  about 
our  regular  business ;  we  must  remind  ourselves  that  we  have 
an  object  in  prayer,  and  that  until  that  object  be  attained, 
that  is,  until  we  are  satisfied  that  our  Eather  hears  us,  we  are 
not  to  conceive  that  our  duty  is  performed,  although  we  may 
be  in  the  posture  of  prayer  for  an  hour. 

*         *         *  # 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

Wintermgham,  12th  April,  1805. 

My  dear,  Mother, 

I  have  constructed  a  planetarium,  or  orrery,  of  a  very 
simple  kind,  which  cannot  fail  to  give  even  children  an  idea  of 
the  order  and  course  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  I  shall  write  a 
few  plain  and  simple  lectures  upon  it,  with  lessons  to  be  got 
off  by  heart  by  the  children,  so  that  you  will  be  able,  without 
any  difficulty,  to  teach  them  the  rudiments  of  astronomy. 
The  machine,  simple  as  it  may  seem,  is  such,  that  you  cannot 
fail  to  understand  the  planetary  system  by  it ;  and  were  it  not 
that  I  cannot  afford  the  additional  expense,  I  could  make  it 
much  more  complete  and  interesting.  You  must  not  expect 
anything  striking  in  the  instrument  itself,  as  it  only  consists 
of  an  index  plate,  with  rods  and  balls.  It  will  explain  the 
situation  of  the  planets,  their  courses,  the  motion  of  the  earth 
and  moon,  the  causes  of  the  seasons,  the  different  lengths  of 
day  and  night,  the  reason  of  eclipses,  transits,  &c.  When 
you  have  seen  it,  and  read  the  explanatory  lectures,  you  will 
be  able  to  judge  of  its  plainness  ;  and  if  you  find  you  under- 
stand it,  you  may  teach  geography  scholars  its  use.  Should  it 
fail  in  other  points  of  view,  it  will  be  useful  to  Maria  and 
Catharine. 


112 


LETTERS  OF 


llemember  to  keep  up  the  plan  of  family  worship  on  Sun- 
days with  strictness  until  1  come,  and  it  will  probably  pave 
the  way  for  still  further  improvements,  which  I  may,  perhaps, 
have  an  opportunity  of  making  while  I  stay  with  you.  Let 
Maria  and  Catharine  be  more  particularly  taught  to  regard 
Sunday  as  a  day  set  apart  from  all  worldly  occupations :  let 
them  have  everything  prepared  for  the  Sabbath  on  the  pre- 
ceding day;  and  be  carefully  warned,  on  that  day  in  parti- 
cular, to  avoid  paying  too  great  an  attention  to  dress.  I  know 
how  important  habits  like  these  will  be  to  their  future  hap- 
piness even  in  this  world,  and  I  therefore  press  this  with 
earnestness. 

*         *         *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Winteringham,  20th  May,  1805. 

My  deaii  Neville, 

*  *  * 
My  first  business  must  be  to  thank  you  for  the  — 
which  I  received  by  Mr.  K.  Swann;  you  must  not  suppose 
that  I  feel  reluctance  to  lie  under  obligations  to  so  affectionate 
a  brother,  when  I  say,  that  I  have  felt  uneasy  ever  since  on 
more  accounts  than  one.  I  am  convinced,  in  the  first  place, 
that  you  have  little  to  spare ;  and  I  fear,  in  the  second,  that  I 
shall  prove  an  hindrance  to  a  measure  which  I  know  to  be 
necessary  for  your  health ;  I  mean  your  going  to  some  watering- 
place  for  the  benefit  of  sea-bathing.  I  am  aware  of  the 
nature  of  injuries  received  at  the  joints,  especially  the  knee  ; 
and  I  am  sure  nothing  will  strengthen  your  knee  more  for  the 
present,  and  prevent  the  recurrence  of  disease  in  it  for  the 
future.  I  would  have  you,  therefore,  if  by  any  means  you  can 
be  spared  in  London,  go  to  one  of  the  neighbouring  coasts, 
and  take  sufficient  time  to  recover  your  strength.  You  may 
pitch  upon  some  pleasant  place,  where  there  will  be  sufficient 
company  to  amuse  you,  and  not  so  much  as  to  create  bustle, 
and  make  a  toil  of  reflection,  and  turn  retirement  into  riot. 
Since  you  must  be  as  sensible  as  I  am,  that  this  is  necessary 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE.  J}3 

for  your  health,  I  shall  feel  assured,  if  you  do  not  go,  that  I 
am  the  cause,  a  consideration  I  would  gladly  spare  myself. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
Mr  DEAR  BUOTHEB,  Nottingham,  June,  1805. 

a-o  wide?  T  T  *  fr°m  some  time 

ago,  which  I  now  apprehend  you  have  never  received  or  if 
you  have,  some  more  important  concerns  have  oecup Id  yo« 
time  than  writing  to  me  on  general  subjects.   PcelL  how- 
ever rather  weary  to  night,  I  have  determined  to  end  this 
sheet  o  you,  as  a  proof  tltat  if  I  am  not  a  punctual  I 
certainly  far  from  a  ceremonious  correspondenf  ' 
Our  adventure  on  the  Humber  you  should  hare  learnt  from 
STT'  Wh°'  Wltl1  much  minuteness,  fdled  up  three  s  S 
of  a  letter  to  his  friend  with  the  account.   The  matter  vvas 
simp  y  th      h    Almond)  ^  ^  ma«--s 

about  twelve  or  fourteen  miles  up  the  Humber;  on  ourreTum 
ran  aground,  were  left  by  the  tide  on  a  sand-ba^al  te re 
obliged  to  remain  sk  hours  in  an  open  boat  exposed  to  1 
heavy  ram,  high  wind  and  piercing  cold,  untO  thft  £  rose 
vhen  two  men  brought  a  boat  to  our  assistance.    We  fiot 

tTed  o°l*To  °  °'Ci0Ck  *  110 

toTet  SL^rdir17  eXerti°U  ™  M  "**  * 

*  *      *  cjf 

TO  MR.  JOHN  CHARLES  WORTH. 
My  dear  Friend,  Nottingham,  27th  June,  1805. 

since1!  ZZTt        SinC,6  1  Wrote  t0  J0"-  «nd  still  loiter 

ZLmo?:  /r0mvU;  h?  J°U  are  ^  un- 

ceremonious disposition,  and  will,  I  hope,  pardon  me  for  nh 

trading  an  unbidden  guest  on  your  notice.'  'l  ite  a  oult 


LETTERS  OF 


to  ask  of  you  in  the  first  place,  and  I  shall  then  fill  up  my 
letter  with  all  the  familiarity  of  a  man  talking  by  your  side, 
and  saying  anything,  rather  than  be  accused  of  saying  nothing. 
My  leisure  will  scarcely  permit  me  to  write  to  you  again  while 
I  am  here,  and  I  shall  therefore  make  the  best  use  of  the  pre- 
sent occasion. 

*         &         *  * 

"We  have  been  lagging  through  Rollin's  Ancient  History, 
and  some  other  historical  books,  as  I  believe,  to  no  great  pur- 
pose. Rollin  is  a  valuable  and  truly  pious  writer,  but  so 
crammed  and  garnished  with  reflections,  that  you  lose  the 
thread  of  the  story,  while  the  poor  man  is  prosing  about  the 
morality  of  it ;  when,  too,  afcer  all,  the  moral  is  so  obvious  as- 
not  to  need  insisting  upon.  You  may  give  my  compliments  to 
your  good  friends  Galen,  Hippocrates  and  Paracelsus,  and  tell 
them  I  had  much  rather  pay  them  my  devoirs  at  a  distance, 
than  come  into  close  contact  with  them  or  their  cathartics. 
Medical  Greek,  and  medical  Latin,  would  act  as  a  sudorific 
upon  any  man,  who  should  hear  their  tremendous  technicals 
pronounced  with  the  true  ore  rotundo  of  a  Scotch  physician. 

And  now,  my  dear  Sir,  we  will  cry  a  truce  to  flippancy — I 
have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  indulge  in  it  to  excess. 
You  and  I  have  been  some  time  asunder  in  the  pursuit  of  our 
several  studies ;  you  to  the  lively  and  busy  seat  of  gaiety, 
fashion  and  folly;  I  to  the  retired  haunts  of  a  secluded 
village,  and  the  studious  walls  of  a  silent  and  ancient  parson- 
age. At  first  sight  one  would  think  that  my  lot  had  been  most 
profitable,  as  undoubtedly  it  is  most  secure ;  but  when  wel- 
come to  consider  the  present  state  of  things  in  the  capital,  the 
boundless  opportunities  oi  spiritual  improvement  which  offer 
themselves,  and  the  very  superior  society  which  every  serious 
man  may  there  join  with,  the  tables  seem  turned  in  your  favour. 
I  hope  and  trust  this  is  really  the  case,  and  that,  with  philoso- 
phical strength  of  mind,  you  have  turned  an  unregarding  ear 
to  the  voice  of  folly,  and  continued  fixed  upon  the  serener  and 
far  more  exquisite  occupations  of  a  religious  life.  I  have  been 
Cultivating  in  retirement,  by  slow  and  imperceptible  degrees,  a 
closer  communion  with  God;  but  you  have  been  led,  as  it 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE.  \15 

were,  in  triumph  by  the  energetic  discourses  of  the  ^nany  good 
meD  whom  you  have  had  the  opportunity  of  hearing,  to  heights 
of  religious  satisfaction,  which  I  can  at  present  only  sigh  for 
at  a  distance.  I  appeal  to  you  whether  the  Grace  of  God  is 
not  the  source  of  exquisite  enjoyments  ?  What  can  be  more 
delightful  than  that  sweet  and  placid  calm  which  it  casts  over 
one's  mind ;  or  than  the  tenderness  it  sheds  abroad  in  our 
hearts,  both  with  regard  to  God,  and  our  poor  fellow-labourers  ? 
Even  worldly-minded  men  confess  that  this  life  is,  at  best,  but 
a  scene  of  anxiety,  and  disappointment,  and  distress.  How 
absurd,  then,  and  inconsistent,  must  be  their  conduct,  when, 
in  spite  of  this  so  general  and  confirmed  an  experience,  they 
neglect  what  can  alone  alleviate  the  sorrows  of  this  life,  and 
provide  for  the  happiness  of  the  next  ?  How  much  more  is 
he  to  be  envied,  who  can  exclaim  with  St.  Paul,  "  The  world 
is  crucified  unto  me,  and  Junto  the  world."  "  I  have  learnt 
in  whatever  state  I  am,  thcreicith  to  be  content."  M  The 
world  passeth  aicay,  and  the  lust  thereof;  hut  he  that  doeth 
the  will  of  God,  abideih  for  ever."  There  is,  in  truth,  an 
indescribable  satisfaction  in  the  service  of  God;  his  grace 
imparts  such  composure  in  time  of  trouble,  and  such  fortitude 
in  the  anticipation  of  it,  at  the  same  time  that  it  increases  our 
pleasures  by  making  them  innocent,  that  the  Christian,  viewed, 
either  as  militant  in  this  troublous  scene,  or  as  a  traveller  wbo 
is  hastening  by  a  difficult,  but  short  journey,  to  a  better  country^ 
is  a  most  enviable  and  happy  character.  The  man  who  lives, 
without  God  in  the  world,  on  the  other  hand,  has  neither  rest 
here,  nor  certainty  or  hope  for  the  future.  His  reflections 
mast,  at  all  times,  be  dubious  and  dark,  not  to  say  distressing : 
and  his  most  exquisite  enjoyments  must  have  a  sting  of  fea? 
and  apprehension  in  them,  which  is  felt  when  the  gay  hour  i&. 
over,  and  its  joys  no  more  remembered.  Many  wicked  and 
dissipated  men  sigh  in  secret  for  the  state  of  the  righteous, 
but  they  conceive  there  are  insuperable  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  religion,  and  that  they  must  amend  their  lives  before  they 
can  hope  for  acceptance,  or  even  dare  to  seek  acceptance  with., 
God.  But  what  a  miserable  delusion  is  this !  If  this  were- 
truly  the  case,  how  awful  would  be  the  condition  of  ths- 
I  2 


116 


LETTERS  OF 


sinner !  for  we  know  that  our  hearts  are  so  depraved,  and  so 
obstinately  addicted  to  sin,  that  they  cannot  forsake  it  without 
Borne  more  than  mortal  power  to  cut  asunder  the  bonds  of 
innate  corruption,  and  loosen  the  affections  from  this  sinful 
bondage.  I  was  talking  a  few  days  ago  with  a  young  surgeon, 
who  is  just  returned  from  the  East  Indies,  and  was  expostu- 
lating with  him  on  his  dissolute  habits :  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I 
know  you  are  happy,  and  I  would  give  worlds  to  be  able  to 
subdue  my  passion ;  but  it  is  impossible,  it  never  can  be  done. 
I  have  made  resolution  upon  resolution,  and  the  only  effect  has 
been,  that  I  have  plunged  deeper  into  vice  than  ever."  What 
could  be  a  stronger  illustration  of  the  Scripture  truth,  that 
man's  heart  is  naturally  corrupt,  and  desperately  wicked? 
Since  wickedness  is  misery,  can  we  conceive  that  an  all-good 
and  benevolent  God  would  have  originally  created  man  with 
such  a  disposition  ?  It  is  sin  which  has  made  the  world  a  vale 
of  tears.  It  is  the  power  of  the  cross  of  Jesus  Christ  alone 
that  can  redeem  us  from  our  natural  depravity.  "  Yes,"  my 
friend,  "we  Icnoio  on  whom,  we  have  believed;  and  we  are 
persuaded,  that  he  is  able  to  keep  that  which  we  have  com- 
mitted unto  him  against  the  great  day."  When  I  occasionally 
reflect  on  the  history  of  the  times  when  the  great  Redeemer 
appeared,  behold  God  preparing  his  way  before  him,  uniting 
all  the  civilized  world  in  one  language,  (Greek,)  for  the  speedier 
disseminating  of  the  blessed  Gospel ;  and  then  when  I  com- 
pare his  precepts  with  those  of  the  most  famous  of  ancient 
sages,  and  meditate  on  his  life,  his  manners,  his  sufferings,  and 
cruel  death,  I  am  lost  in  wonder,  love,  and  gratitude.  Such  a 
host  of  evidence  attended  him,  as  no  power  but  that  of  the 
devil  could  withstand.  His  doctrines,  compared  with  the  mo- 
rality of  the  then  world,  seem  indeed  to  have  dropt  down  from 
heaven.  His  meekness,  his  divine  compassion  and  pity  for, 
and  forgiveness  of,  his  bitterest  enemies,  convinces  me  that  he 
was  indeed  the  Word,  that  he  was  what  he  professed  to  be, 
God,  in  his  Son,  reconciling  the  world  to  himself.  These 
thoughts  open  my  eyes  to  my  own  wretched  ingratitude,  and 
disregard  of  so  -merciful  and  compassionate  a  master ;  under 
such  impressions,  I  could  ardently  long  to  be  separated  alto- 


HENRY  KIliKE  WHITE. 


117 


gether  from  ihe  affairs  of  this  life,  and  live  alone  to  my 
Redeemer.  But,  alas  !  this  does  not  last  long — the  pleasing 
outside  of  the  delusive  world  entices  my  heart  away ;  beauty 
smiles  me  into  a  disgust  of  religion,  and  the  fear  of  singularity 
frowns  me  into  the  concealment  of  it.  How  artfully  does  thr 
arch-deceiver  insinuate  himself  into  our  hearts !  He  tells  us 
that  there  is  a  deal  of  unnecessary  moroseness  in  religion,  a 
deal  too  many  humiliating  conditions  in  the  gospel,  and  many 
ignorant  absurdities  in  its  professors ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  polite  world  is  so  cheerful  and  pleasing,  so  full  of  harmless 
gaiety  and  refined  elegance,  that  we  cannot  but  love  it.  This 
is  an  insidious  species  of  reasoning.  Could  we  but  see  things 
in  their  true  colours,  were  but  t\\Q  false  varnish  off,  the  society 
of  the  gospel  would  seem  an  assembly  of  angels,  that  of  the 
world  a  congregation  of  devils :  but  it  is  the  best  way  not  to 
reason  with  the  tempter.  I  have  a  talisman,  which  at  once 
puts  to  flight  all  his  arguments ;  it  is  the  name  of  my  Saviour, 
and  against  that  the  gates  of  hell  shall  not  prevail.  That  is 
my  anchor  and  my  confidence  :  I  can  go  with  that  to  the  bed 
of  death,  and  lift  up  the  eyes  of  the  dying  and  despairing  wretch 
to  the  great  Intercessor ;  I  can  go  with  this  into  the  society 
of  the  cheerful,  and  come  away  with  lightness  of  heart  and 
entertainment  of  spirit.  In  every  circumstance  of  life  I  can 
join  with  Job,  who,  above  fourteen  hundred  years  before  Jesus 
Christ,  exclaims,  in  the  fervour  of  holy  anticipation,  "  I  know 
that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  he  shall  stand  at  the  latter 
day  upon  the  earth ;  and  though  after  my  skin  worms  destroy 
this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see  God/* 

The  power  of  the  gospel  was  never  more  strongly  illustrated 
than  in  the  late  mission  to  Greenland.  These  poor  and  unlet- 
tered tribes,  who  inhabit  nearly  the  extremest  verge  of  animal 
existence,  heard  the  discourses  of  the  Danish  missionaries  on 
the  being  of  a  God  with  stupid  unconcern,  expressed  their 
assent  to  everything  that  was  proposed  to  them,"  and  then 
hoped  to  extort  some  present  for  their  complacency.  Por  ten 
years  did  a  very  learned  and  pious  man  labour  among  them 
without  the  conversion  of  a  single  soul.  He  thought  that  he 
must  prove  to  them  the  existence  of  a  God,  and  the  original 


113 


LETTERS  OF 


stain  of  our  natures,  before  he  could  preach  the  peculiar  doc- 
trines of  the  gospel,  and  he  coidd  never  get  over  this  first 
step ;  for  the}'  either  could  not  understand  it,  or  would  not, 
and  when  no  presents  were  to  be  had,  turned  away  in  disgust. 
At  length  he  saw  his  error,  and  the  plan  of  operations  was 
altered.  Jesus  Christ  was  preached  in  simplicity,  without  any 
preparation.  The  Greenlanders  seemed  thoughtful,  amazed, 
mid  confounded;  their  eyes  were  opened  to  their  depraved 
and  lost  state.  Tiie  gospel  was  received  everywhere  with 
ardent  attention.  The  flame  spread  like  wild-fire  over  the 
icy  wastes  of  Greenland;  numbers  came  from  the  remotest 
recesses  of  the  Northern  Ocean  to  hear  the  word  of  life,  and 
the  greater  part  of  the  population  of  that  extensive  country 
has  in  time  been  baptized  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  the 
Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost. 

I  have  now  filled  my  sheet.  Pardon  my  prolixity,  and, 
believe  me,  my  prayers  are  offered  up  frequently  for  your 
continuance  of  the  path  you  have  chosen.  Tor  myself,  I  need 
your  prayers — may  we  be  a  mutual  assistance  to  each  other, 
and  to  all  our  fellow-labourers  in  the  Lord  Jesus. 
Believe  me 

Your  sincere  friend, 

II.  K.  White. 


TO  ME.  JOHN  CII AELE S WORTH. 

Nottingham,  6tli  July,  1805. 

DEAH  ClIATvLESWORTir, 

*  #  *  * 

I  beg  you  will  admire  the  elegance  of  texture  and  shape 
of  the  sheet  on  which  I  have  the  honour  to  write  to  you,  and 
beware,  lest  in  drawing  your  conclusions,  you  conceive  that  I 
am  turned  exciseman ;  for  I  assure  you  I  write  altogether  in 
character ; — a  poor  Cambridge  scholar,  with  a  patrimony  of  a 
few  old  books,  an  ink-horn,  and  some  sundry  quires  of  paper, 
manufactured  as  the  envelope  of  pounds  of  tea,  but  converted 
into  repositories  of  learning  and  taste. 

The  classics  are  certainly  in  disrepute.  The  ladies  have  no 
more  reverence  for  Greek  and  Latin  than  they  have  for  an  old 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


119 


peruke,  or  the  ruffles  of  Queen  Anne.  I  verily  believe  that 
they  would  hear  Homer's  Greek  without  evidencing  one  mark 
of  terror  and  awe,  even  though  spouted  by  an  university 
orator,  or  a  Westminster  stentor.  O  tempora,  0  mores !  the 
rural  elegance  of  the  twanging  French  horn,  and  the  vile 
squeak  of  the  Italian  fiddle,  are  more  preferred  than  all  the 
energy  and  all  the  sublimity  of  all  the  Greek  and  Roman 
orators,  historians,  poets,  and  philosophers,  put  together. 
]\Tow,  sir,  as  a  classic,  I  cannot  bear  to  have  the  honourable 
fame  of  the  ancients  thus  despised  and  contemned,  and  there- 
fore I  have  a  controversy  with  all  the  beaux  and  belles, 
Frenchmen  and  Italians.  When  they  tell  me  that  I  walk  by 
r  ile  and  compass,  that  I  balance  my  body  with  strict  regard 
to  the  centre  of  gravity,  and  that  I  have  more  Greek  in  my 
pate  than  grace  in  my  limbs,  I  can  bear  it  all  in  sullen  silence, 
for  you  know  it  must  be  a  libel,  since  I  am  no  mathematician, 
and  therefore  cannot  have  learned  to  walk  ill  by  system.  As 
for  grace,  I  do  believe,  since  I  read  Xenophon,  I  am  become  a 
very  elegant  man,  and  in  due  time  shall  be  a"ole  to  spout 
Pindar,  dancing  in  due  gradation  the  advancing,  retrograde  and 
medium  steps,  according  to  the  regular  progress  of  the  strophe, 
antistrophe,  and  epode.  You  and  I  will  be  very  fashionable 
men  after  the  manner  of  the  Greeks:  we  will  institute  an 
orchestra  for  the  exercise  of  the  ars  salt  audi,  and  will  recline 
at  our  meals  on  the  legitimate  Triclinium  of  the  ancients — 
only  banish  all  modern  beaux  and  belles,  to  whom  I  am  a 
professed  and  declared  enemy. 
So  much  for  flippancy — 

Vale!  S.11.V.B.E.E.Q.V. 

H.  K.  White. 


TO  MR.  SERJEANT  ROUGH. 

Brigg,  near  Winteriiigham,  Juiy,  lc*05. 

My  dear  Sir, 

I  have  just  missed  you  at  Lincoln,  where  I  had  some 
expectations  of  seeing  you,  and  had  not  circumstances  pre- 
vented, I  had  certainly  waited  there  till  to-morrow  morning 


120 


LETTERS  OF 


for  that  purpose.  This  letter,  which  I  wrote  at  Brigg,  I  shall 
convey  to  you  at  Kirton,  by  some  person  going  to  the  session ; 
many  of  whom,  I  have  no  doubt,  are  to  be  found  in  this 
litigious  little  town. 

Your  mis-directed  epistle,  to  my  great  sorrow,  never  readied 
my  hands.  As  I  was  very  anxious  to  get  it,  I  made  many 
inquiries  at  the  post-offices  round ;  but  they  were  ail  in  vain. 
I  consider  this  as  a  real  loss,  and  I  hope  you  will  regard  me  as 
still  under  the  pressure  of  vexation,  until  I  receive  some  sub- 
stitute from  your  hands. 

Had  I  any  certain  expectation  of  hearing  you  address  tTie 
Court,  or  Jury  sworn,  at  Kirton,  no  circumstances  should 
prevent  me  from  being  present;  so  do  I -long  to  mark  the 
dawnings  of  that  eloquence  which  will  one  day  ring  through 

every  court  in  the  Midland  Circuit.  I  think  the  noise  of  , 

the  overbearing  petulance  of  ,  and  the  decent  assurance 

of   ,  will  readily  yield  to  that  pure,  chaste,  and  manly 

eloquence,  which,  I  have  no  doubt,  you  chiefly  cultivate.  It 
seems  to  me,  who  am  certainly  no  very  competent  judge,  that 
there  is  an  uniform  mode  or  art  of  pleading  in  our  courts* 
which  is  in  itself  faulty,  and  is,  moreover,  a  bar  to  the  higher 
excellences.  You  know,  before  a  barrister  begins,  in  what 
manner  he  will  treat  the  subject;  you  anticipate  his  positive- 
ness,  his  complete  confidence  in  the  stability  of  his  case,  his 
contempt  of  his  opponent,  his  voluble  exaggeration,  and  the 
vehemence  of  his  indignation.  All  these  are  as  of  course.  It  is 
no  matter  what  sort  of  a  face  the  business  assume :  if  Mr.  - 
be  all  impetuosity,  astonishment  and  indignation  on  one  side, 
we  know  he  would  not  have  been  a  whit  less  impetuous,  less 
astonished,  or  less  indignant,  on  the  other,  had  he  happened 
to  have  been  retained.  It  is  true,  this  assurance  of  success, 
this  contempt  of  an  opponent,  and  dictatorial  decision  in 
speaking,  are  calculated  to  have  effect  on  the  minds  of  a  jury  ; 
and  if  it  be  the  business  of  a  counsel  to  obtain  his  ends  by  any 
means,  he  is  right  to  adopt  them ;  but  the  misfortune  is,  that 
all  these  things  are  mechanical,  and  as  much  in  the  power  of 
the  opposite  counsel  as  in  your  own ;  so  that  it  is  not  so  much 
who  argues  best,  as  who  speaks  last,  loudest,  or  longest. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


121 


True  eloquence,  on  the  other  hand,  is  confident  only  where 
there  is  real  ground  for  confidence,  trusts  more  to  reason  and 
facts  than  to  imposing  declamation,  and  seeks  rather  to  con- 
vince than  dazzle.  The  obstreperous  rant  of  a  pleader  may, 
for  awhile,  intimidate  a  jury ;  but  plain  and  manly  argument, 
delivered  in  a  candid  and  ingenious  manner,  will  more  effec- 
tually wrork  upon  their  understandings,  and  will  make  an 
impression  on  which  the  froth  of  declamation  will  be  lost.  I 
think  a  man  who  would  plead  in  this  manner,  would  gain  the 
confidence  of  a  jury,  and  would  find  the  avenues  of  their  hearts 
much  more  open,  than  a  man  of  more  assurance,  who,  by  too 
much  confidence  where  there  is  much  doubt,  and  too  much 
vehemence  where  there  is  greater  need  of  coolness,  puts  his 
hearers  continually  in  mind  that  he  is  pleading  for  hire.  There 
seems  to  me  so  much  beauty  in  truth,  that  I  could  wish  our 
barristers  would  make  a  distinction  between  cases,  in  their 
opinion  well  or  ill  founded,  embarking  their  whole  heart  and 
soul  in  the  one,  and  contenting  themselves  with  a  perspicuous 
and  forcible  statement  of  their  client's  case  hi  the  other, 

Pardon  my  rambling.  The  cacoethes  scribendi  can  only  be 
used  by  indulgence,  and  we  have  all  a  propensity  to  talk  about 
things  we  do  not  understand. 

*         *         m  '.i 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

Winteringliam,  Aug.  20th,  1805. 

Deab  Neville, 

*  *  * 
I  am  very  sensible  of  all  your  affection,  in  your  anxiety 
that  I  should  not  diminish  my  books ;  but  I  am  by  no  means 
relieved  from  the  anxiety  which,  on  more  accounts  than  one, 
1  am  under  as  to  my  present  situation,  so  great  a  burthen  to 
the  family,  when  I  ought  to  be  a  support.  My  lather  made 
some  heavy  complaints  when  I  was  at  home ;  and  though  I 
am  induced  to  believe  that  he  is  enough  harassed  to  render  it 
very  excusable,  yet  I  cannot  but  leel  strongly  the  peculiarity 
of  my  situation,  and,  at  my  age,  feel  ashamed  that  I  should 


122 


LETTERS  OF 


add  to  liis  burthens.  At  preeent  I  have  my  hands  completely 
tied  behind  me.  When  I  get  to  college,  I  hope  to  have  more 
opportunities  of  advantage,  and,  if  I  am  fortunate,  I  shall 
probably  relieve  my  father  and  mother  from  the  weight  which 
I  now  lay  upon  them.  I  wish  you,  if  you  read  this  letter  to 
my  mother,  to  omit  this  parts 


TO  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

Winteringbaro,  Sept.  10th,  1805. 

Death  Sir, 

Your  letter  has  at  length  reached  me  at  this  place,  where 
I  have  been  for  the  last  ten  months  employed  in  classica 
reading,  with  Mr.  Grainger.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to  hear  of 
you,  and  of  poetry;  for,  since  I  came  here,  I  have  not  only 
been  utterly  shut  out  from  all  intercourse  with  the  lettered 
world,  but  have  totally  laid  aside  the  pen  of  inspiration.  I 
have  been  actuated  to  this  by  a  sense  of  duty  ;  for  I  wish  to 
prove  that  I  have  not  coveted  the  ministerial  office  through 
the  desire  of  learned  leisure,  but  with  an  ardent  wish  to  do 
my  duty  as  a  teacher  of  the  truth.  I  should  blush  to  present 
myself  as  a  candidate  for  that  office  in  an  unqualified  and  un- 
prepared state ;  and  as  I  have  placed  my  idea  of  the  necessary 
qualifications  very  high,  all  the  time  between  now  and  my 
taking  my  degree  will  be  little  enough  for  these  purposes 
alone.  I  often,  however,  cast  a  look  of  fond  regret  to  the 
darling  occupations  of  my  younger  hours,  and  the  tears  rush 
into  my  eyes,  as  I  fancy  I  see  the  few  wild  flowers  of  poetic 
genius  with  which  I  have  been  blessed  withering  with  neglect. 
Poetry  has  been  to  me  something  more  than  amusement ;  it 
has  been  a  cheering  companion  when  I  have  had  no  other  to 
fly  to,  and  a  delightful  solace  when  consolation  has  been  in 
some  measure  needful.  I  cannot,  therefore,  discard  so  old  and 
faithful  a  friend  without  deep  regret,  especially  when  I  reflect 
that,  stung  by  my  ingratitude,  he  may  desert  me  for  ever ! 
*  *  *  * 

With  regard  to  your  intended  publication,  you  do  me  too 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


125 


much  honour  by  inserting  my  puerilities  along  with  such  good 
company  as  I  know  I  shall  meet  there.  I  wish  I  could  pre- 
sent jou  with  some  sonnets  worthy  of  your  work.  I  have 
looked  back  amongst  my  old  papers,  and  find  a  few  verses 
under  that  name,  which  were  written  between  the  time  when 
••'Clifton  Grove"  was  sent  to  the  press  and  its  final  appear- 
ance. The  looking  over  these  papers  has  recalled  a  little  of 
my  old  warmth,  and  I  have  scribbled  some  lines,  which,  as 
they  owe  their  rise  to  your  letter,  I  may  fairly  (if  I  have  room) 
present  to  you.  I  cannot  read  the  sonnets  which  I  have 
found  amongst  my  papers  with  pleasure,  and  therefore  I  shall 
not  presume  to  show  them  to  you.  I  shall  anxiously  expect 
the  publication  of  your  work. 

I  shall  be  in  Cambridge  next  month,  being  admitted  a  sizar 
at  St.  John's.  Trinity  would  have  suited  my  plans  better,  but 
the  expenses  of  that  college  are  greater. 

With  thanks  for  your  kind  remembrance  of  me,  1  remain, 
Dear  Sir, 

Very  respectfully  and  thankfully  yours, 

H.  K.  White. 

Yes,  my  stray  steps  have  wander'd,  wander'd  far 
From  thee,  and  long,  heart-soothing  Poesy ! 
And  many  a  flower,  which  in  the  passing  time 
My  heart  hath  register  d,  nipp'd  by  the  chill 
Of  undeserv'd  neglect,  hath  shrunk  and  died. 
Heart-soothing  Poesy ! — Tho'  thou  hast  ceas'd 
To  hover  o'er  the  many  voiced  strings 
Of  my  long  silent  lyre,  yet  thou  canst  still 
Call  the  warm  tear  from  its  thrice  hallow' d  cell, 
And  with  recalled  images  of  bliss 
Warm  my  reluctant  heart. — Yes,  I  would  throw, 
Once  more  would  throw,  a  quick  and  hurried  hand 
O'er  the  responding  chords. — It  hath  not  ceas'd — 
It  cannot,  will  not  cease ;  the  heavenly  warmth 
Plays  round  my  heart,  and  mantles  o'er  my  cheek ; 
Still,  tho'  unbidden,  plays. — Eair  Poesy  ! 
The  summer  and  the  spring,  the  wind  and  rain, 


124 


LETTERS  OF 


Sunshine  and  storm,  with  various  interchange, 

Have  mark'd  full  many  a  day,  and  week,  and  mouthy 

Since  by  dark  wood,  or  hamlet  far  retir'd, 

Spell-struck,  with  thee  I  loiter'd. — Sorceress  ! 

I  cannot  burst  thy  bonds  ! — It  is  but  lift 

Thy  blue  eyes  to  that  deep  bespangled  vault, 

Wreathe  thy  enchanted  tresses  round  thine  arm, 

And  mutter  some  obscure  and  charmed  rhyme, 

And  I  could  follow  thee,  on  thy  night's  work, 

Up  to  the  regions  of  thrice-chastened  fire, 

Or  in  the  caverns  of  the  ocean  flood, 

Thrid  the  light  mazes  of  thy  volant  foot. 

Yet  other  duties  call  me,  and  mine  ear 

Must  turn  away  from  the  high  minstrelsy 

Of  thy  soul-trancing  harp,  unwillingly 

Must  turn  away ; — there  are  severer  strains 

(And  surely  they  are  sweet  as  ever  smote 

The  ear  of  spirit,  from  this  mortal  coil 

Pteleas'd  and  disembodied),  there  are  strains 

Forbid  to  all,  save  those  whom  solemn  thought, 

Thro'  the  probation  of  revolving  years, 

And  mighty  converse  with  the  spirit  of  truth, 

Have  purged  and  purified. — To  these  my  soul 

Aspireth ;  and  to  this  sublimer  end 

I  gird  myself,  and  climb  the  toilsome  steep 

"With  patient  expectation. — Yea,  sometimes 

Foretaste  of  bliss  rewards  me ;  and  sometimes 

Spirits  unseen  upon  my  footsteps  wait, 

And  minister  strange  music,  which  doth  seem 

Now  near,  now  distant,  now  on  high,  now  low, 

Then  swelling  from  all  sides,  with  bliss  complete^ 

And  full  fruition  fining  all  the  soul. 

Surely  such  ministry,  tho'  rare,  may  soothe 

The  steep  ascent,  and  cheat  the  lassitude 

Of  toil ;  and  but  that  my  fond  heart 

Reverts  to  day-dreams  of  the  summer  gone, 

When  by  clear  fountain,  or  embowered  brake, 

I  lay  a  listless  muser.  prizing  far 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


125 


Above  all  other  lore,  the  poet's  theme ; 

But  for  such  recollections  I  could  brace 

My  stubborn  spirit  for  the  arduous  path 

Of  science  unregretting ;  eye  afar 

Philosophy  upon  her  steepest  height, 

And  with  bold  step,  and  resolute  attempt, 

Pursue  her  to  the  innermost  recess, 

Where  thron'd  in  light  she  sits,  the  Queen  of  Truth. 

These  verses  form  nearly  the  only  poetical  effort  of  this  year. 
Pardon  their  imperfections. 


TO  MR.  13.  MADDOCK. 

St.  Johns,  Oct.  18th,  1805. 

My  dear  Ben, 

I  am  at  length  finally  settled  in  my  rooms,  and,  according 
to  my  promise,  I  write  to  you  to  tell  you  so.  I  did  not  feel 
quite  comfortable  at  first  here ;  but  I  now  begin  to  feel  at 
home,  and  relish  my  silent  and  thoughtful  cup  of  tea  more 
than  ever.  Amongst  our  various  occupations,  that  of  attend- 
ing chapel  is  to  me  not  the  least  irksome,  for  the  service  is 
read  in  general  below  the  span  of  my  auditory  nerve ;  but 
when  they  chaunt,  I  am  quite  charmed,  for  our  organ  is  fine, 
and  the  voices  are  good.  This  is,  however,  only  on  high  days 
and  festivals,  in  which  number  the  present  day  is  to  be 
reckoned  (St.  Luke's). 

My  mathematical  studies  do  not  agree  with  me,  and  you 
may  satisfy  yourself  I  shall  never  be  a  senior  wrangler.  Many 
men  come  up  with  knowledge  enough  for  the  highest  honours, 
and  how  can  a  man  be  expected  to  keep  up  with  them  who 
starts  without  any  previous  fund?  Our  lectures  begin  on 
Monday,  and  then  I  shall  know  more  of  college  difficulties. 

My  rooms  are  in  the  top  story  of  the  farthest  court  of 
St.  John's  (which  you  perhaps  remember)  near  the  cloisters. 
They  are  light,  and  tolerably  pleasant ;  though,  as  there  was 
no  furniture  in  them,  and  I  have  not  yet  bought  many  neces- 
sary articles,  they  look  very  bare.     Your  phiz  over  the 


12G 


LETTERS  OF 


chimney-piece  has  been  recognised  by  two  of  my  fellow  - 
students :  the  one  recollected  its  likeness  to  Mr.  Maddock, 
of  Magdalene ;  and  the  other  said  it  was  like  a  young  man 
whom  he  had  seen  with  Mr.  Maddock,  and  whom  he  supposed 
to  be  his  brother. 

Of  my  new  acquaintances,  I  have  become  intimate  with  a 

Mr.  ,  who,  I  hope,  will  be  senior  wrangler.   He  is  a  very 

serious  and  friendly  man,  and  a  man  of  no  common  mathe- 
matical talents.  He  lives  in  the  same  court  with  me. 
Besides  him,  I  know  of  none  whose  friendship  I  should  value  \ 
<md,  including  him,  no  one  whose  hand  I  would  take  in 
preference  to  that  of  my  old  friend ;  so  long  as  I  see  my  old 
friend  with  his  old  face.  When  you  have  learned  to  be  other 
than  what  you  are,  I  shall  not  regret  that  B.  M.  is  no  longer 
my  friend,  but  that  my  former  friend  is  now  no  more. 

*  * 

I  walked  through  Magdalene  the  other  day,  and  I  could  not 
help  anticipating  the  time  when  I  should  come  to  drink  your 
tea,  and  swallow  your  bread  and  butter,  within  the  sacred  walls. 
You  must  know  our  college  was  originally  a  convent  for  Black 
Eriars ;  and  if  a  man  of  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Sixth  were  to 
peep  out  of  his  grave,  in  an  adjoining  churchyard,  and  look 
into  our  portals,  judging  by  our  dress  and  appearance,  he 
might  deem  us  a  convent  of  Black  Eriars  still.  Some  of  our 
brethren,  it  is  true,  would  seem  of  very  unsightly  bulk ;  but 
many  of  them,  with  eyes  sunk  into  their  heads,  from  poring 
over  the  mathematics,  might  pass  very  well  for  the  fasting  and 
mortified  shadows  of  penitent  monks. 

With  regard  to  the  expenses  of  our  college,  T  can  now 
speak  decisively ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  that  I  shall  be  here  an 
independent  man.  I  am  a  Senior  Sizar,  under  very  favourable 
circumstances,  and  I  believe,  the  profits  of  my  situation  will 
nearly  equal  the  actual  expenses  of  the  college.  But  this  is 
no  ride  for  other  colleges.  I  am  on  the  best  side  (there  are 
two  divisions)  of  St.  John's,  and  the  expenses  here  are  less 
than  anywhere  else  in  the  university. 

I  have  this  week  written  some  very  elaborate  verses  for  a  ' 
college  prize,  and  I  have  at  length  learned  that  I  am  not  qualified 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


127 


for  a  competitor,  not  being  a  Lady  Margaret's  scholar :  so  that 
I  have  lost  my  labour.  Compared  with  the  other  men  of  this 
large  college,  I  find  I  am  a  respectable  classic,  and  if  I  had 
time  to  give  to  the  languages,  I  think  I  should  ultimately  suc- 
ceed in  them  in  no  small  degree  ;  but  the  fates  forbid ;  mathe- 
matics I  must  read,  and  in  mathematics  I  know  I  never  shall 
excel.  These  are  harassing  reflections  for  a  poor  young  man 
gaping  for  a  fellowship  ! 

If  I  choose,  I  could  find  a  good  deal  of  religious  society 
here,  but  I  must  not  indulge  myself  with  it  too  much.  Mr. 
Simeon's  preaching  strikes  me  much. 

% 

I  beg  you  will  answer  a  thousand  such  questions  as  these 
without  my  asking  them. 

This  is  a  letter  of  intelligence : — Next  shall  be  sentiment, 
(or  Gothic  arch,  for  they  are  synonymous  according  to  Mr.  M.) 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

St.  John's,  October  23  th,  1805. 

Dear  Mother, 

*  *      •    #  * 

You  seem  to  repose  so  little  confidence  in  what  I  say  with 
regard  to  my  college  expenses,  that  I  am  not  encouraged  to 
hope  you  will  give  me  much  credit  for  what  I  am  about  to  say ;  .. 
namely,  that  had  I  no  money  at  all,  either  from  my  friends  or 
Mr.  Simeon,  I  could  manage  to  live  here.  My  situation  is  so 
very  favourable,  and  the  necessary  expenses  so  very  few,  that 
I  snail  want  very  little  more  than  will  suffice  for  clothes  and 
books.  I  have  got  the  bills  of  Mr.  ,  a  sizar  of  this  col- 
lege, now  before  me,  and  from  them,  and  his  own  account,  I 
will  give  you  a  statement  of  what  my  College  bills  will 
amount  to. 

*  *         *  * 

Thus  my  college  expenses  will  not  be  more  than  twelve  or 
fifteen  pounds  a  year  at  the  most.  I  shall  not  have  any  occa- 
sion for  the  whole  sum  I  have  a  claim  upon  Mr.  Simeon  for? 


128 


LETTERS  OF 


and  if  things  go  well,  I  shall  be  able  to  live  without  being 

dependent  on  any  one.    The  Mr.   ,  whose  bills  I  have 

borrowed,  has  been  at  College  three  years.    He  came  over 

from  with  ten  pounds  in  his  pocket,  and  has  no  friends  or 

any  income  or  emolument  whatever  except  what  he  receives 
for  his  sizarship :  yet  he  does  support  himself,  and  that,  too, 
very  genteelly.  It  is  only  men's  extravagance  that  makes 
college  life  so  expensive.  There  arc  sizars  at  St.  John's  who 
spend  150£.  a  year;  but  they  are  gay,  dissipated  men,  who 
choose  to  be  sizars  in  order  that  they  may  have  more  money 
to  lavish  on  their  pleasures.  Oar  dinners  and  suppers  cost  us 
nothing ;  and  if  a  mar.  choose  to  eat  milk  breakfasts,  and  go 
without  tea,  he  may  live  absolutely  for  nothing;  for  his  College 
emoluments  will  cover  the  rest  of  his  expenses.  Tea  is  indeed 
almost  superfluous,  since  we  do  not  rise  from  dinner  till  half- 
past  three,  and  the  supper  bell  rings  a  quarter  before  nine. 
Our  mode  of  living  is  not  to  be  complained  of,  for  the  table  is 
covered  with  all  possible  variety;  and  on  feast  days,  which 
our  fellows  take  care  are  pretty  frequent,  we  have  wine. 

You  will  now,  I  trust,  feel  satisfied  on  this  subject,  and  will 
no  longer  give  yourself  unnecessary  uneasiness  on  my  account. 

I  was  unfortunate  enough  to  be  put  into  unfurnished  rooms, 
so  that  my  furniture  will  cost  me  a  little  more  than  I  expected; 
I  suppose  about  fifteen  pounds,  or  perhaps  not  quite  so  much. 
I  sleep  on  a  hair  mattress,  which  I  find  just  as  comfortable  as 
a  bed ;  it  only  cost  me  four  pounds  along  with  blankets,  coun- 
terpane, and  pillows,  &c.  I  have  three  rooms — a  sitting-room, 
a  bed-room,  and  a  kind  of  scullery  or  pantry.  My  sitting- 
room  is  very  light  and  pleasant,  and,  what  does  not  often 
liappen,  the  walls  are  in  good  case,  having  been  lately  stained 
green. 

I  must  commission  my  sister  to  make  me  a  pair  of  letter- 
racks,  but  they  must  not  be  fine,  because  my  furniture  is  not 
very  fine.  I  think  the  old  shape  (or  octagons  one  upon 
another)  is  the  neatest,  and  white  the  best  colour.  I  wish 
Maria  would  paint  vignettes  in  the  squares,  because  then  I 
should  see  how  her  drawing  proceeds.    Toy  must  know  that 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


129 


these  are  not  intended  as  mere  matters  of  show,  bnt  are 
intended  to  answer  some  purpose;  there  are  so  many  par- 
ticular places  to  attend  on  particular  days,  that  unless  a  man 
is  very  cautious,  he  has  nothing  else  to  do  than  to  pay  forfeits 
for  non-attendance.  A  few  cards  and  a  little  rack  will  be  a 
short  way  of  helping  the  memory. 

I  think  I  must  get  a  supply  of  sugar  from  London ;  for  if  I 
buy  it  here  it  will  cost  me  Is.  6d.  per  pound,  which  is  rather 
too  much.    I  have  got  tea  enough  to  last  the  term  out. 

*  *         *  * 

Although  you  may  be  quite  easy  on  the  subject  of  my  future 
support,  yet  you  must  not  form  splendid  ideas  of  my  success 
at  the  University,  for  the  lecturers  all  speak  so  low,  and  we 
sit  at  such  a  distance,  that  I  cannot  hear  a  syllable.  I  have, 
therefore,  no  more  advantage  than  if  I  were  studying  at  home. 

I  beg  we  may  have  no  more  doubts  and  fears,  at  least  on 
my  score.  I  think  I  am  now  very  near  being  off  your  hands ; 
and,  since  my  education  at  the  University  is  quite  secure,  yon 
need  not  entertain  gloomy  apprehensions  for  the  future :  my 
maintenance  will,  at  all  events,  be  decent  and  respectable ;  and 
you  must  not  grieve  yourseJf  bp^ause  I  cannot  be  as  rich  as  an 
alderman. 

m         #  *  * 

Do  not  show  this  letter  to  all  comers,  nor  leave  it  about, 
for  people  will  have  a  very  mean  idea  of  University  education 
when  they  find  it  costs  so  little  ;  but  if  they  are  saucy  on  the 
subject,  tell  them — I  have  a  lord  just  under  me. 

*  *         *  * 


TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  DASHWOOD. 

St.  John's,  Oct.  26th,  1805. 

Dear  Sir, 

It  is  now  many  months  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and  I  have 
not  received  any  answer.  I  should  not  have  troubled  you 
with  this  letter,  but  that,  considering  how  much  I  owe  to  you, 
I  thought  the  rules  and  observances  of  strict  etiquette  might 
with  moral  propriety  be  dispensed  with. 

K 


ISO 


LETTERS  OF 


Suffer  me  therefore  to  tell  you,  that  I  am  quietly  and  com- 
fortably settled  at  St.  John's ;  silently  conforming  myself  to 
the  habits  of  college  life,  and  pursuing  my  studies  with  such 
moderation  as  I  think  necessary  for  my  health.  I  feel  very 
much  at  home,  and  tolerably  happy;  although  the  peculiar 
advantages  of  University  education  will  in  a  great  measure  be 
lost  to  me,  since  there  is  not  one  of  the  lecturers  whom  I  am 
able  to  hear. 

My  literary  ambition  is,  I  think,  now  fast  subsiding,  and  a 
better  emulation  springing  up  in  its  room.  I  conceive  that, 
considering  the  disadvantages  under  which  I  labour,  very  little 
can  be  expected  from  me  in  the  Senate  House.  I  shall  not, 
however,  remit  my  exertions,  but  shall  at  least  strive  to  acquit 
myself  with  credit,  though  I  cannot  hope  for  the  more  splendid 
honours. 

With  regard  to  my  college  expenses,  I  have  the  pleasure  to 
inform  you,  that  my  situation  is  so  favourable  that  I  shall  be 
obliged,  in  strict  rectitude,  to  wave  the  offers  of  many  of  my 
friends.  I  shall  not  even  need  the  sum  Mr.  Simeon  men- 
tioned after  the  first  year ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  1  may 
be  able  to  live  without  any  assistance  at  all.  I  confess  I  feel 
pleasure  in  the  thought  of  this,  not  through  any  vain  pride  of 
independence,  but  because  I  shall  then  give  a  more  unbiassed 
testimony  to  the  truth,  than  if  I  were  supposed  to  be  bound 
to  it  by  any  ties  of  obligation  or  gratitude.  I  shall  always 
feel  as  much  indebted  for  intended,  as  for  actually  afforded 
assistance ;  and  though  I  should  never  think  a  sense  of  thank- 
fulness an  oppressive  burthen,  yet  I  shall  be  happy  to  evince 
it,  when,  in  the  eyes  of  the  tvorld,  the  obligation  to  it  has  been 
discharged. 

#         *         *  m 

I  hope  you  will  ere  long  relieve  me  from  the  painful  thought 
that  I  lie  under  your  displeasure ;  and  believe  me, 
Dear  Sir, 

Most  sincerely  and  affectionately  yours, 

H.  K.  White. 


HENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 


131 


TO  MR.  CHARLESWOETH. 

•  *  *  * 

Cum  diutius  a  te  frustra  litteras  expectassem  memet  in 
animum  tuum  revocare  aut  iterum  otio  obtrudere  nolebam. 

Penes  te  erat  aut  nobiscum  denuo  per  litteras  colloqui  aut 
iamiliaritatem  et  necessitatem  nostram  silentio  dimittere.  Hoc 
te  praetulisse  jam  diu  putaveram,  cum  epistola  tua  mini  in 
manus  venit. 

¥fc  ¥fc  % 

Has  litteras  scribebam  intra  sanctos  Sanctissinu  Johannis 
Collegii  muros,  in  celeberrima  liac  nostra  academia  Can- 
tabrigse. 

Hie  tranquillitate  denique  litterarum  propria,  summa  cum 
voluptate  conjuncta  fruor.  Hie  omnes  discendi  vias,  omne» 
scicntise  rationes  indago  et  persequor :  nescio  quid  tandem 
evasurus.  Certe  si  parum  proficio,  mini  eulpee  jure  datum 
erit ;  modo  valetudo  me  sinat. 

Haud  tamen  vereor,  si  verum  dicere  cogor,  ut  satis  proficiam : 
quanquam  infirmis  auribus  aliorum  lecturas  vix  unquam  audire 
queam.  In  Mathematieis  parum  adbuc  profeci :  utpote  qui 
perarduum  certamen  cum  eruditissimis  quibusque  in  veterum 
linguis  et  moribus  versatis  jam-jam  sim  initurus. 

His  in  studiis  pro  mea  perbrevi  sane  et  tanquam  besterna 
consuetudine  baud  mediocriter  sum  versatus. 

Latine  minus  eleganter  scribere  videor  quam  Grsece :  neque 
vero  eadem  voluptate  scriptores  Latinos  lectito  quam  Greecos : 
cum  autem  omnem  industrise  mese  vim  Romanis  litteris  con- 
tulerim  baud  dubito  quin  faciles  milii  et  propitias  eas  faciam. 

Te  etiam  revocatum  velim  ad  bsec  elegantia  deliciasque  litte- 
rarum. Quid  enim  accommodatius  videri  potest  aut  ad  animum 
quotidianis  curis  laboribusque  oppressum  reficiendum  et  recre- 
andum  aut  ad  mentem  et  facultates  ingenii  acuendas  quam 
exquisita  et  expolita  summaque  vi  et  acumine  ingenii  elaborata 
veterum  scriptorum  opera  ? 

*         *         *         *  . 

k  2 


122 


LETTERS  OP 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  JAMES. 

St.  John's,  November,  1805. 

My  deau  James, 

You  do  not  know  how  anxious  I  am  to  hear  how  you  go 
on  in  all  things  ;  and  whether  you  still  persist  in  steadfastness 
and  seriousness.  I  know,  my  dear  lad,  that  your  heart  is  too 
good  to  run  into  actual  vice,  yet  I  fear  the  example  of  gay  and 
wicked  persons  may  lead  you  to  think  lightly  of  religion,  and 
then  who  knows  where  it  may  end  ?  Neville,  however,  will 
always  be  your  director,  and  I  trust  you  conceal  none,  even 
of  your  very  thoughts,  from  him.  Continue,  James,  to  solicit 
the  fatherly  superintendence  of  your  Maker,  night  and  morning. 
1  shall  not  fear  for  you,  while  I  am  assured  you  do  this  fervently, 
and  not  in  a  hurried  or  slovenly  manner.  With  constant  prayer, 
we  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  temptations  oi  the  world,  the 
flesh,  and  the  devil :  God  will  bring  us  through  it,  and  will 
save  us  in  the  midst  of  peril.  If  we  consider  the  common  con- 
dition of  man's  life,  and  the  evils  and  misfortunes  to  which  we 
are  daily  exposed,  we  have  need  to  bless  God  every  moment 
for  sparing  us,  and  to  beg  of  him,  that  when  the  day  of  mis- 
fortune comes,  (and  come  it  must,  sooner  or  later,  to  all,)  we 
may  be  prepared  with  Christian  fortitude  to  endure  the  shock. 
What  a  treasure  does  the  religious  man  possess  in  this,  that 
when  everything  else  fails,  he  has  God  for  his  refuge ;  and  can 
look  to  a  world  where  he  is  sure,  through  Christ  Jesus,  that  he 
will  not  be  disappointed  ! 

I  do  not  much  heed  to  what  place  of  worship  you  may  go, 
so  as  you  are  but  a  serious  and  regular  attendant.  Permit  me, 
however,  to  explain  the  true  nature  rf  the  question  with  regard 
to  the  church  liturgy,  in  order  thai  you  may  be  the  better  able 
to  judge. 

You  know  from  the  epistles  of  St.  Paul,  that  soon  after  the 
death  of  Jesus  Christ,  there  were  regular  churches  established 
in  various  places,  as  at  Corinth,  Galatia,  Thessalonica,  &c.  &c. 
Now,  we  are  not  certain  that  they  used  forms  of  prayers  at  all 
in  these  churches,  much  more  that  any  part  of  ours  was  used 
in  their  time ;  but  it  is  certain,  that  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


133 


286,  there  was  a  general  liturgy  in  use  throughout  all  the 
churches  of  Christ.  Now,  if  in  that  early  time,  when  Christians 
vere  much  more  like  the  apostles  than  they  are  now,  they 
used  a  form  of  prayer  in  the  churches,  it  is  fair  to  conclude 
that  the  practice  was  not  unscriptural :  besides,  at  this  very 
time,  St.  John,  the  Evangelist,  had  not  been  dead  above  100 
years,  and  one  of  his  disciples,  though  at  a  very  great  age,  was 
actually  living.  St.  Chrysostom,  who  lived  above  354  years 
after  Christ,  wrote  some  of  our  prayers,  and  the  greater  part 
of  them  have  been  in  general  use  for  a  thousand  years.  About 
the  year  286,  about  one  thousand  five  hundred  years  ago, 
immense  multitudes  of  savages,  the  Goths  and  Yandals,  being 
enticed  by  the  fertility  of  the  Italian  country,  and  the  riches 
of  its  possessors,  came  down  from  Germany,  Hungary,  and  all 
the  northern  parts  of  Europe,  upon  the  Roman  empire,  then 
enfeebled  with  luxury,  and  endeavoured  to  gain  possession  of 
the  south.  They  were  at  first  repulsed ;  but  as  fast  as  they 
were  defeated  or  slain,  new  hordes,  allured  by  the  accounts 
which  their  countrymen  gave  of  its  opulence  and  abundance, 
succeeded  in  their  stead ;  till  the  forces  of  the  Romans  grew 
unequal  to  the  contest,  and  gradually  gave  way  to  the  invaders, 
who,  wherever  they  came,  reduced  everything  to  a  state  of 
barbarism.  The  Christians,  about  this  time,  were  beginning 
to  prevail  in  the  Roman  territories,  and  under  the  Emperor 
Constantine,  who  was  the  first  Christian  king,  were  giving  the 
blow  to  idolatry.  But  the  savage  intolerance  of  the  invaders, 
who  reduced  the  conquered  to  abject  slavery,  burnt  books 
wherever  they  found  them,  and  even  forbade  the  cultivation  of 
learning,  reduced  them  to  the  utmost  distress.  At  this  time 
they  wrote  and  used  in  their  churches,  all  that  part  of  the 
litany  which  begins  with  the  Lord's  prayer,  and  ends  with  the 
prayer  of  St.  Chrysostom.  Thus  you  see  how  venerably  ancient 
are  many  of  our  forms,  and  how  little  they  merit  that  contempt 
which  ignorant  people  pour  upon  them.  Yery  holy  men  (men 
now  we  have  every  reason  to  believe  in  heaven)  composed 
them,  and  they  have  been  used  from  age  to  age  ever  since,  in 
our  churches,  with  but  few  alterations.  But  you  will  say  they 
were  used  by  the  Roman  Catholics,  who  are  a  very  superstitious 


134 


LETTERS  OP 


and  bigoted  set  of  people.  This  is  no  objection  at  all,  because 
the  Roman  Catholics  were  not  always  so  bad,  and  what  is  a 
proof  of  this  is,  that  there  once  was  no  other  religion  in  the 
world ;  and  we  cannot  think  that  church  very  wicked,  which 
God  chose,  once,  to  make  the  sole  guardian  of  his  truth.  There 
have  been  many  excellent  and  pious  men  among  the  Roman 
Catholics,  even  at  the  time  their  public  faith  was  corrupted. 

You  may  have  heard  of  the  reformation :  you  know  it  was 
brought  about  by  Luther  and  Calvin,  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
about  1536.  Now  Calvin  is  the  founder  of  the  sect  of  Inde- 
pendants,  such  as  those  who  meet  at  Castlegate,  yet  he  had  a 
hand  in  framing  the  liturgy,  which,  with  alterations,  we  now 
use,  and  he  selected  it  in  part  from  the  liturgy  of  the  Roman 
church;  because  they  had  received  it  from  the  primitive 
christians,  who  were  more  immediately  taught  by  the  apostles. 
The  reformation  means  that  change  in  religion,  which  was 
brought  about,  as  said  before,  by  Luther  and  Calvin,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  abuses  and  errors  which  had  crept  into  the 
Romish  church. 

You  may  possibly  think  the  responses,  or  answers  of  the 
clerk  and  people,  rather  ridiculous.  This  absurdity,  however, 
generally  consists  more  in  the  manner  than  in  the  thing.  They 
were  intended  to  be  pronounced  aloud  by  the  people,  and  were 
used  as  a  means  to  keep  their  attention  awake,  and  show  their 
sincerity.  At  the  time  this  form  was  invented,  not  one  man 
in  five  or  six  hundred  could  read;  and  these  repetitions 
answered  another  purpose,  of  fixing  important  ejaculations  and 
sentences  in  their  minds.  In  these  days  the  same  necessity 
does  not  exist ;  but  we  still  retain  the  form  on  account  of  its 
other  advantages,  and  through  reverence  of  such  an  antiquity, 
as  almost  vouches  for  its  being  acceptable  to  God,  who  has 
permitted  it  to  be  used  by  the  wisest  and  best  of  men  for  so 
long  a  period. 

I  think  I  have  now  nearly  tired  you.  Pray  write  to  me 
soon,  and  believe  me, 

My  dear  James, 

Your  very  affectionate  Brother, 

H.  K.  White. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


135 


TO  MB.  B.  MADDOCK. 
St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  Nov.  10,  1805. 

Mr  dear  Ben, 

*  *         *  * 

The  reasons  why  I  said  mathematical  studies  did  not  agree 
with  me,  were  these — that  I  am  more  inclined  to  classical 
pursuits,  and  that,  considering  what  disadvantages  I  lie  under 
in  being  deaf,  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  excel  in  them.  I  have 
at  present  entirely  laid  them  aside,  as  I  am  reading  for  the 
university  scholarship,  which  will  soon  be  vacant :  there  are 
expected  to  be  thirteen  or  fourteen  candidates,  some  of  whom 
are  of  great  note  from  Eton  ;  and  I  have  as  much  expectation 
of  gaining  it,  as  of  being  elected  supreme  magus  over  the 
mysteries  of  Mithra.  The  scholarship  is  of  no  value  in  itself 
adequate  to  the  labour  of  reading  for  it,  but  it  is  the  greatest 
classical  honour  in  the  university,  and  is  a  pretty  sure  road  to 
a  fellowship.  My  classical  abilities  here  have  attracted  soma 
attention,  and  my  Latin  Themes,  in  particular,  have  drawn 
forth  inquiries  from  the  tutors  as  to  the  place  of  my  educa- 
tion. The  reason  why  I  have  determined  to  sit  for  the  scholar- 
ship is  this,  that  to  have  simply  been  a  candidate  for  it  esta- 
blishes a  man's  character,  as  many  of  the  first  classics  in  the 
^university  have  failed  of  it. 

*  «         *  * 

I  begin  now  to  feel  at  home  in  my  little  room,  and  I  wisli 
you  were  here  to  see  how  snugly  I  sit  by  my  blazing  fire  in 
the  cold  evenings.  College  certainly  has  charms,  though  I 
have  a  few  things  rankling  at  my  heart  which  will  not  let  me 
•be  quite  happy.    Ora,  Ora,  pro  me. 

This  last  sentence  of  mine  is  of  a  curious  tendency,  to  be 
•sure ;  for  who  is  there  of  mortals  who  has  not  something 
rankling  at  his  heart,  which  will  not  let  him  be  happy  ? 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  different  estimations  two  meii 
make  of  one  another's  happiness.  Each  of  them  surveys  the 
external  appearance  of  the  other's  situation,  and  comparing 
them  with  the  secret  disquieting  circumstances  of  his  own, 
thinks  him  happier ;  and  so  it  is  that  all  the  world  over,  be 


136 


LETTERS  OF 


we  favoured  as  we  may,  there  is  always  something  which 
others  have,  and  which  we  ourselves  have  not,  necessary  to 
the  completion  of  our  felicity.  I  think,  therefore,  upon  the 
whole,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  positive  happiness  in  this 
world;  and  a  man  can  only  iue  deemed  felicitous,  as  he  is  in 
comparison  less  affected  with  positive  evil.  It  is  our  business, 
therefore,  to  support  ourselves  under  existing  ills,  with  the 
anticipation  of  future  blessings.  Life,  with  all  its  bitters,  is  a 
draughl  soon  drunk ;  and  though  we  have  many  changes  to 
fear  on  this  side  the  grave,  beyond  it  we  know  of  none. 

Your  life  and  mine  are  now  marked  out ;  and  our  calling  is 
of  such  a  nature,  that  it  ill  becomes  us  to  be  too  much  affected 
with  circumstances  of  an  external  nature.  It  is  our  duty  to 
bear  our  evils  with  dignified  silence.  Considering  our  superior 
consolations,  they  are  small  in  comparison  with  those  of  others; 
and  though  they  may  cast  a  sadness  both  over  our  hearts  and 
countenances,  which  time  may  not  easily  remove,  yet  they 
must  not  interfere  with  our  active  duties,  nor  affect  our  con- 
duct towards  others,  except  by  opening  our  heart  with  warmer 
sympathy  to  their  woes,  their  wants,  and  miseries. 

As  you  have  begun  in  your  religious  path,  my  beloved 
friend,  persevere.  Let  your  ±ove  to  the  crucified  continue  as 
r"nre  as  it  was  at  first,  while  ;/our  zeal  is  more  tempered,  and 
your  piety  more  rational  and  mature.  I  hope  yet  to  live  to 
see  you  a  pious  and  respected  parish  priest :  as  for  me — I  hope 
I  shall  do  my  duty  as  I  have  strength  and  ability,  and  I  hope 
I  shall  always  continue,  what  I  now  profess  myself, 
Your  friend  and  brother, 

H.  K.  White. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  Johns,  Cambridge,  10th  Dec,  1805. 

Dear  Neville, 

I  am  so  truly  hurt  that  you  should  again  complain  of  my 
long  silence,  that  1  cannot  refrain  from  sending  tnis  by  the 
post,  although  I  shall  send  you  a  parcel  to-morrow.  The 
reason  of  my  not  having  sent  you  the  cravats  sooner,  is  the 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


137 


difficulty  I  have  found  in  getting  them  together,  since  part 
were  in  the  hands  of  my  laundress,  and  part  dirty.  I  do  not 
know  whether  you  will  find  them  right,  as  my  linen  is  in  other 
respects  deficient,  and  I  have  a  cause  at  issue  with  my  washer- 
woman on  that  score.  This  place  is,  literally,  a  den  of 
^ueves ;  my  bed-maker,  whom  we  call  a  gyp,  from  a  Greek 
trord  signifying  a  vulture,  runs  away  with  everything  he  can 
lay  his  hands  on,  and  when  he  is  caught,  says  he  only  borrows 
them.  He  stole  a  sack  of  coals  a  week,  as  regularly  as  the 
week  came,  when  first  I  had  fires ;  but  I  have  stopped  the  run 
of  this  business,  by  a  monstrous  large  padlock,  which  is  hung 
to  the  staple  of  the  bin.  His  next  trick  was  to  bring  me  four 
candles  for  a  pound  instead  of  six ;  and  this  trade  he  carried 
on  for  some  time,  until  1  accidentally  discovered  the  trick :  he 
then  said  he  iiad  always  brought  me  right  until  that  time,  and 
that  then  he  had  brought  me  fives,  but  had  given  Mr.  H.  (a 
man  on  the  same  staircase)  one,  because  he  thought  he  under 
stood  I  had  borrowed  one  of  him :  on  inquiring  of  Mr.  H.,  he 
had  not  given  him  one  according  to  his  pretence;  but  the 
gentleman  was  not  caught  yet,  for  he  declared  he  had  lent  one 
to  the  bed-maker  of  Lord  B.  in  the  rooms  below.  His  neatest 
trick  is  going  to  the  grocer  every  now  and  then  for  articles  in 
your  name,  which  he  converts  to  his  own  use  I  have  stopped 
him  here  too,  by  keeping  a  check-book.  Tea,  sugar,  and 
pocket-handkerchiefs  are  his  natural  perquisites,  and  I  verily 
believe  he  will  soon  be  filling  his  canister  out  of  mine  before 
my  face.  There  is  no  redress  for  all  this ;  for  if  you  change, 
you  are  no  better  off;  they  are  all  alike.  They  know  you 
regard  them  as  a  pack  of  thieves,  and  their  only  concern  is  to 
steal  so  dexterously  that  they  may  not  be  confronted  with 
direct  proof. 

*  *  *  * 

Do  not  be  surprised  at  any  apparent  negligence  in  my 
letters ;  my  time  has  so  many  calls  for  it,  that  half  my  duties 
are  neglected.  Our  college  examination  comes  on  next  Tues- 
day, and  it  is  of  the  utmost  moment  that  I  acquit  myself  well 
there.  A  month  after  will  follow  the  scholarship  examination. 
My  time  therefore,  at  present,  will  scarcely  permit  the  per- 


138 


LETTERS  OP 


formance  of  my  promise  with  respect  to  the  historical  papers, 
but  I  have  them  in  mind,  and  I  am  much  bent  on  perfecting 
'them  in  a  manner  superior  to  their  commencement. 

I  would  fain  write  to  my  brother  James,  who  must  by  no 
means  think  I  forget  him ;  but  I  fear  I  shall  see  him  before  I 
write  to  him,  on  the  accounts  above  stated.  The  examination 
for  the  scholarship  is  distinct  from  that  of  our  college,  which 
is  a  very  important  one;  and  while  I  am  preparing  for  the 
me,  I  necessarily  neglect  the  other. 

I  wish  very  much  to  hear  from  you  on  religious  topics ;  and 
remember,  that  although  my  leisure  at  present  will  not  allow 
me  to  write  to  you  all  I  wish,  yet  it  will  be  the  highest  gratifi- 
cation to  me  to  read  your  letters,  especially  when  they  relate 
to  your  christian  progress.  I  beseech  you  not  to  relax,  as  you 
value  your  peace  of  mind,  and  the  repose  of  a  dying  bed.  I 
wish  you  would  take  in  the  Christian  Observer,  which  is  a 
cheap  work,  and  will  yield  you  much  profitable  amusement. 
I  have  it  here  for  nothing,  and  can  send  you  up  some  of  the 
numbers,  if  you  like. 

Remember,  and  let  my  mother  know,  that  I  have  no  chance 
for  the  university  scholarship,  and  that  I  only  sit  for  the  pur- 
pose of  letting  the  University  know  that  I  am  a  decent  pro- 
ficient in  the  languages. 

There  is  one  just  vacant,  which  I  can  certainly  get,  but  I 
should  be  obliged  to  go  to  Peter- house  in  consequence,  which 
will  not  be  advisable ;  but  I  must  make  inquiries  about  it.  I 
speak  with  certainty  on  this  subject,  because  it  is  restricted  to 
candidates  who  are  in  their  first  year,  amongst  whom  I  should 
probably  be  equal  to  any.  The  others  are  open  to  bachelors. 
«         *         *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  December  10th,  1805. 

Dear  Neville, 

In  consequence  of  an  alteration  in  my  plans,  I  shall  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  the  latter  end  of  this  week,  and 
I  wish  you  so  to  inform  my  aunt.    The  reason  of  tins  change 


HENIIY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


139 


is  this,  that  I  have  over-read  myself,  and  I  find  it  absolutely 
necessary  to  take  some  relaxation,  and  to  give  up  study 
entirely,  for  a  short  time,  in  order  that  I  may  go  on  better 
hereafter. 

This  has  been  occasioned  by  our  college  lectures,  which  I 
had  driven  too  late,  on  account  of  my  being  occupied  in  pre- 
parations for  the  University  scholarship  examination,  and  then 
I  was  obliged  to  fag  so  hard  for  the  college  lectures,  as  the 
time  drew  on,  that  I  could  take  no  exercise.  Thus  I  soon 
knocked  myself  up,  and  I  now  labour  under  a  great  general 
relaxation,  and  much  nervous  weakness. 

Change  of  air  and  place  will  speedily  remove  these  symp- 
toms, and  I  shall  certainly  give  up  the  University  scholarship, 
rather  than  injure  my  health. 

Do  not  mention  these  things  to  my  mother,  as  she  will  make 
it  a  cause  of  unnecessary  uneasiness. 

*  *  *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  December  19th,  1805. 

Dear  Neville, 

I  was  sorry  to  receive  your  letter,  desiring  me  to  defer 
my  journey ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  be  forced  to  tell  you  the  reason 
of  my  coming  to  town  sooner  than  you  wish  me.  I  have  had 
an  attack  of  my  old  nervous  complaint,  and  my  spirits  have 
been  so  wretchedly  shattered,  that  my  surgeon  says  I  shall 
never  be  well  till  I  have  removed  somewhere,  where  I  can  have 
society  and  amusement.  It  is  a  very  distressing  thing  to  be 
ill  in  college,  where  you  have  no  attendance,  and  very  little 
society.  Mr.  Catton,  my  tutor,  has  prevailed  upon  me,  by 
pressing  wishes,  to  go  into  the  hall  to  be  examined  with  the 
men  of  my  year.  I  have  gone  through  two  examinations,  and 
I  have  one  to  come  ;  after  that  is  over,  he  told  me  I  had  better 
go  to  my  friends  directly,  and  relieve  myself  with  complete 
relaxation  from  study.  Under  these  circumstances,  the  object 
of  my  journey  to  London  will  be  answered,  by  the  mere  resi- 
dence in  my  aunt's  family,  and  by  a  cessation  from  reading. 


140 


LETTERS  OP 


While  I  am  here,  I  am  wretched ;  I  cannot  read,  the  slightest 

application  makes  me  faint ;  I  have  very  little  society,  and  that 
is  quite  a  force  upon  my  friends.  I  am  determined,  therefore, 
to  leave  this  place  on  Saturday  morning,  and  yon  may  rest 
satisfied  that  the  purpose  of  my  journey  will  be  fully  accom- 
plished by  the  prattle  of  my  aunt's  little  ones,  and  her  care.  1 
am  not  an  invalid,  since  I  have  no  sickness  or  ailment,  but  I 
am  weak  and  low-spirited,  and  unable  to  read.  The  last  is  the 
greatest  calamity  I  can  experience  of  a  worldly  nature.  My 
mind  preys  upon  itself.  Had  it  not  been  for  Leeson,  of  Clare 
Hall,  I  could  not  have  gone  through  this  week.  I  have  been 
examined  twice,  and  almost  without  looking  over  the  subjects, 
and  I  have  given  satisfaction,  but  I  am  obliged  to  be  kept  up 
by  strong  medicines  to  endure  this  exertion,  which  is  very 
great. 

I  am  happy,  however,  to  tell  you,  I  am  better;  and 
Mr.  Earish,  the  surgeon,  says,  a  few  days  will  re-establish 
me  when  I  get  into  another  scene,  and  into  society. 

*         *         *  * 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

London,  December  24th,  1805. 

My  dear  Mother, 

You  will,  no  doubt,  have  been  surprised  at  not  having,  heard 
from  me  for  so  long  a  time,  and  you  will  be  no  less  so  to  find 
that  I  am  writing  this  at  my  aunt's,  in  this  far-famed  city.  I 
have  been  so  much  taken  up  with  our  college  examinations  of 
late,  that  I  could  not  find  time  to  write  even  to  you,  and  I  am 
now  come  to  town,  in  order  to  give  myself  every  relaxation 
and  amusement  I  can ;  for  I  had  read  so  much  at  Cambridge, 
that  my  health  was  rather  affected,  and  I  was  advised  to  give 
myself  the  respite  of  a  week  or  a  fortnight,  in  order  to  recover 
strength.  I  arrived  in  town  on  Saturday  night,  and  should 
have  written  yesterday,  in  order  to  remove  any  uneasiness  you 
might  feel  on  my  account,  but  there  is  no  post  on  Sunday. 

I  have  now  to  communicate  some  agreeable  intelligence  to 
you.    Last  week  being  the  close  of  the  Michaelmas  term, 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


141 


and  our  college  examination,  our  tutor,  who  is  a  very  great 
man,  sent  for  me,  and  told  me  he  was  sorry  to  hear  I  had 
been  ill :  he  understood  I  was  low-spirited,  and  wished  to 
know  whether  I  frightened  myself  about  college  expenses.  I 
told  him,  that  they  did  contribute  some  little  to  harass  me, 
because  I  was  as  yet  uncertain  what  the  bills  of  my  first  year 
would  amount  to.  His  answer  was  to  this  purpose :  "  Mr. 
White,  I  beg  you  will  not  trouble  yourself  on  this  subject : 
your  emoluments  will  be  very  great,  very  great  indeed,  and  I 
will  take  care  your  expenses  are  not  very  burthensome — leave 
that  to  me  I"  He  advised  me  to  go  to  my  friends,  and  amuse 
myself  with  a  total  cessation  from  reading.  After  our  college 
examination  (which  lasted  six  days)  was  over,  he  sent  for  me 
again,  and  repeated  what  he  had  said  before  about  the  expenses 
of  the  college;  and  he  added,  that  ii  I  went  on  as  I  had 
begun,  and  made  myself  a  good  scholar,  I  might  rely  on  being 
provided  for  by  the  college ;  for  if  the  county  should  be  full, 
and  they  could  not  elect  me  a  fellow,  they  would  recommend 
me  to  another  college,  where  they  would  be  very  glad  to 
receive  a  clever  man  from  their  hands ;  or,  at  all  events,  they 
could  alivays  get  a  young  man  a  situation  as  a  private  tutor 
in  a  nobleman's  family;  or  could  put  him  into  some  hand- 
some way  of  preferment.  "  We  make  it  a  rule  (he  said)  of 
providing  for  a  clever  man,  whose  fortune  is  small ;  and  you 
may  therefore  rest  assured,  Mr.  White,  that  after  you  have 
taken  your  degree,  you  will  be  provided  with  a  genteel  com- 
petency by  the  college"  He  begged  I  would  be  under  no 
apprehensions  on  these  accounts :  he  shook  hands  with  me 
very  affectionately,  and  wished  me  a  speedy  recovery.  These 
attentions  from  a  man  like  the  tutor  of  St.  John's  are  very 
marked ;  and  Mr.  Catton  is  well  known  for  doing  more  than 
he  says.  I  am  sure,  after  these  assurances  from  a  principal  of 
so  respectable  a  society  as  St.  John's,  I  have  nothing  more  to 
fear ;  and  I  hope  you  will  never  repine  on  my  account  agiiin — 
according  to  every  appearance,  my  lot  in  life  is  certain. 
»         ♦         *  # 


Hi 


LETTERS  OP 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

London,  Xmas,  1805. 

My  dear  Ben, 

You  would  have  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  my  long 
silence,  had  I  preferred  my  self -justification  to  your  ease.  I 
wrote  you  a  letter,  which  now  lies  in  my  drawer  at  St.  John's, 
but  in  such  a  weak  state  of  body,  and  in  so  desponding  and 
comfortless  a  tone  of  mind,  that  I  knew  it  would  give  you 
pain,  and  therefore  I  chose  not  to  send  it.  I  have  indeed  been 
ill ;  but,  thanks  to  God,  I  am  recovered.  My  nerves  were 
miserably  shattered  by  over-application,  and  the  absence  of  all 
that  could  amuse,  and  the  presence  of  many  things  which 
weighed  heavy  upon  my  spirits.  When  I  found  myself  too  ill. 
to  read,  and  too  desponding  to  endure  my  own  reflections,  I 
discovered  that  it  is  really  a  miserable  thing  to  be  destitute 
of  the  soothing  and  supporting  hand  when  nature  most  needs 
it.  I  wandered  up  and  down  from  one  man's  room  to  another, 
and  from  one  college  to  another;  imploring  society,  a  little 
conversation,  and  a  little  relief  of  the  burthen  which  pressed 
upon  my  spirits  ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  those  who,  when 
I  was  cheerful  and  lively,  sought  my  society  with  avidity,  now, 
when  I  actually  needed  conversation,  were  too  busy  to  grant 
it.  Our  college  examination  was  then  approaching,  and  I 
perceived  with  anguish  that  I  had  read  for  the  university 
scholarship  until  I  had  barely  time  to  get  up  our  private 
subjects,  and  that  as  I  was  now  too  ill  to  read,  all  hope  of 
getting  through  the  examination  with  decent  respectability 
was  at  an  end.  This  was  an  additional  grief.  I  went  to  our 
tutor,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  told  him  I  must  absent 
myself  from  the  examination ;  a  step  which  would  have  pre- 
cluded me  from  a  station  amongst  the  prizemen  until  the 
second  year.  He  earnestly  entreated  me  to  run  the  risk.  My 
surgeon  gave  me  strong  stimulants  and  supporting  medicines 
during  the  examination  week,  and  I  passed,  I  believe,  one  of 
the  most  respectable  examinations  amongst  them.  As  soon 
as  ever  it  was  over,  I  left  Cambridge  by  the  advice  of  my 
surgeon  and  tutor,  and  I  feel  myself  now  pretty  strong.  I 
iiave  given  up  the  thought  of  sitting  for  the  university 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


scholarship  in  consequence  of  my  illness,  as  the  course  of  my 
reading  was  effectually  broken.  In  this  place  I  have  been 
much  amused,  and  have  been  received  with  an  attention  in 
the  literary  circles  which  I  neither  expected  nor  deserved^ 
But  this  does  not  affect  me  as  it  once  would  have  done :  my 
views  are  widely  altered,  and  I  hope  that  I  shall  in  time  learn 
to  lay  my  whole  heart  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 

I  have  only  one  thing  more  to  tell  you  of  about  my  illness  ; 
it  is  that  I  have  found  in  a  young  man,  with  whom  I  had 
little  acquaintance,  that  kind  care  and  attention,  which  I 
looked  for  in  vain  from  those  who  professed  themselves  my 

nearest  friends.    At  a  time  when           could  not  find  leisure 

to  devote  a  single  evening  to  his  sick  friend,  even  when  he 
earnestly  implored  it,  William  Leeson  constantly,  and  even 
against  my  wishes,  devoted  every  evening  to  the  relieving  of 
my  melancholy,  and  the  enlivening  of  my  solitary  hours.  With 
the  most  constant  and  affectionate  assiduity,  he  gave  me  my 
medicines,  administered  consolation  to  my  broken  spirits,  and 
even  put  me  to  bed. 

*         *         *  * 


TO  MR.  P.  THOMPSON. 

Loudon,  1st  January,  1800. 

Sir, 

I  owe  it  both  to  my  feelings  and  my  duty,  that  I  should 
thank  you  for  the  kind  inquiries  you  have  thought  it  worth 
while  to  make  concerning  me  and  my  affairs.  I  have  just 
learned  the  purport  of  a  letter  received  from  you  by  Mr. 
Robinson,  the  bookseller ;  and  it  is  a  pleasing  task  to  me,  at. 
the  same  time  that  I  express  my  sense  of  your  benevolent 
concern  in  my  behalf,  to  give  you,  myself,  the  information  you 
require. 

The  little  volume  which,  considered  as  the  production  of  a 
very  young  man,  may  have  interested  you,  has  not  had  a  very 
great  sale,  although  it  may  have  had  as  much  countenance  as 
it  deserved.  The  last  report  I  received  from  the  publishers, 
was  450  sold.  So  far  it  has  answered  the  expectations  I  had 
formed  from  it,  that  it  has  procured  me  the  acquaintance,  and 


114 


LETTERS  OF 


perhaps  I  may  say  the  friendship,  of  men  equally  estimable  fol 
their  talents  and  their  virtues.  Rewarded  by  their  counte- 
nance, I  am  by  no  means  dissatisfied  with  my  little  book; 
indeed,  I  think  its  merits  ha^e,  on  the  whole,  rather  been 
over-rated  than  otherwise,  x*hich  I  attribute  to  the  lenity  so 
readily  afforded  to  tne  faults  of  youth,  and  to  the  promptitude 
with  which  benevolent  minds  give  encouragement  where  en- 
couragement seems  to  be  wanted. 

"With  regard  to  my  personal  concerns,  I  have  succeeded  in 
placing  myself  at  Cambridge,  and  have  already  kept  one  term. 
My  college  is  St.  John's,  where,  in  the  rank  of  sizar,  I  shall 
probably  be  enabled  to  live  almost  independently  of  external 
support;  but  should  I  need  that  support,  I  have  it  in  my 
power  to  draw  on  a  friend,  whose  name  I  am  not  permitted  to 
mention,  for  any  sum  not  exceeding  SOL  per  annum.  With 
habits  of  frugality,  I  shall  never  need  this  sum ;  so  that  I  am 
quite  at  ease  with  respect  to  my  college  expenses,  and  am  at 
full  leisure  to  pursue  my  studies  with  a  free  and  vacant  mind. 

I  am  at  present  in  the  great  city,  where  I  have  come,  in 
consequence  of  a  little  injudicious  application,  a  suitor  to 
health,  variety,  and  amusement.  In  a  few  days  I  shall  return 
to  Cambridge,  where  (should  you  ever  pass  that  way)  I  hope 
you  will  not  forget  that  I  reside  there  three-fourths  of  the 
year.  It  would,  indeed,  give  me  pleasure  to  say  personally 
now  much  I  am  obliged  by  your  inquiries. 

I  hope  you  will  put  a  favourable  construction  both  on  the 
minuteness  and  the  length  of  this  letter;  and  permit  me  to 
subscribe  myself, 

Sir,  very  thankfully  and  obediently,  yours, 

H.  K.  White. 


TO  HIS  AUNT. 

St.  John's,  Cambridge,  Jan.  6,  1806. 

My  dear  Aitnt, 

I  am  once  more  settled  in  my  room  at  Cambridge  ;  but  I 
am  grown  so  idle  and  so  luxurious  since  I  have  been  under 
vour  hands  that  I  cannot  read  with  half  my  usual  diligence. 


HENRY  KIRKT5  WHITE. 


145 


I  hope  you  concluded  the  Christmas  holidays  on  Monday 
Trth  the  customary  glee,  and  I  hope  my  uncle  was  well  enough 
to  partake  of  your  merriment.    You  must  now  begin  your 
penitential  days  after  so  much  riot  and  feasting ;  and  with 
your  three  little  prattlers  around  you,  I  am  sure  your  evenings 
will  flow  pleasantly  by  your  own  fire-side.  Visiting  and  gaiety 
are  very  well  by  way  of  change,  but  there  is  no  enjoyment  so 
lasting  as  that  of  one's  own  family.    Elizabeth  will  soon  be 
old  enough  to  amuse  you  with  her  conversation,  and  I  trust 
you  will  take  every  opportunity  of  teaching  her  to  put  the 
right  value  on  things,  and  to  exercise  her  own  good  sense.  It 
is  amazing  how  soon  a  child  may  become  a  real  comfort  to  its 
mother,  and  how  much  even  young  minds  will  form  habits  of 
affection  towards  those  who  treat  them  like  reasonable  beings, 
capable  of  seeing  the  right  and  the  wrong  of  themselves.  A 
very  little  girl  may  be  made  to  understand  that  there  are  some 
tilings  which  are  pleasant  and  amusing,  which  are  still  less 
worthy  of  attention  than  others  more  disagreeable  and  painful. 
Children  are,  in  general,  fond  of  little  ornaments  of  dress, 
especially  females;  and  though  we  may  allow  them  to  be 
elevated  with  their  trifling  splendours,  yet  we  should  not 
forget  to  remind  them  that,  although  people  may  admire  their 
dress,  yet  they  will  admire  them  much  more  for  their  good 
sense,  sweetness  of  temper,  and  generosity  of  disposition. 
Children  are  very  quick-sighted  to  discern  whether  you 
approve  of  them,  and  they  are  very  proud  of  your  approbation 
when  they  think  yor  bestow  it:  we  shouM  Mvrofore  be  careful 
how  we  praise  them,  and  for  what.    If  we  praise  their  dress, 
it  should  be  slightly,  and  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  very  small 
importance;  but  we  should  never  let  any  mark  of  consideration, 
or  goodness  of  heart,  in  a  child,  pass  by  without  some  token 
of  approbation.    Still  we  must  never  praise  a  child  too  much, 
nor  too  warmly,  for  that  would  beget  vanity ;  and  when  praise 
is  moderately  yet  judiciously  bestowed,  a  child  values  it  more, 
because  it  feels  that  it  is  just.  I  don't  like  punishments.  You 
will  never  torture  a  child  into  duty ;  but  a  sensible  child  will 
dread  the  frown  of  a  judicious  mother,  more  than  all  the  rods, 
dark  rooms,  and  scolding  schoolmistresses  in  the  universe, 
L 


146 


LETTERS  OF 


We  should  teach  our  children  to  make  friends  of  us,  to  com- 
municate all  their  thoughts  to  us ;  and,  while  their  innocent 
prattle  will  amuse  us,  we  shall  find  many  opportunities  of 
teaching  them  important  truths,  almost  without  knowing  it. 

I  admire  all  your  little  ones,  and  I  hope  to  see  Elizabeth 
one  day  an  accomplished  and  sensible  girl.  Give  my  love  to 
them,  and  tell  them  not  to  forget  their  cousin  Henry,  who 
wants  a  housekeeper  at  college  ! 

Though  I  have  written  so  long  a  letter,  I  am,  indeed, 
offended  with  you,  and  I  dare  say  you  know  the  reason  very 
well. 

*         *         *  * 

P.S.  Whenever  you  are  disposed  to  write  a  letter,  think  of 
me. 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.  John's,  February  17th,  1806. 

Deak  Ben, 

*         *         *  * 

Do  not  think  that  I  am  reading  hard ;  I  believe  it  is  all 
over  with  that.  I  have  had  a  recurrence  of  my  old  complaint 
within  this  last  four  or  five  days,  which  has  half  unnerved  me 
for  everything.  The  state  of  my  health  is  really  miserable ; 
[  am  well  and  lively  in  the  morning,  and  overwhelmed  with 
nervous  horrors  in  the  evening.  I  do  not  know  how  to  pro- 
ceed with  regard  to  my  studies — a  very  slight  overstretch  of 
the  mind  in  the  day-time  occasions  me  not  only  a  sleepless 
night,  but  a  night  of  gloom  and  horror.  The  systole  and 
diastole  of  my  heart  seem  to  be  playing  at  ball, — the  stake — 
my  life.  I  can  only  say  the  game  is  not  yet  decided.  I  allude 
to  the  violence  of  the  palpitation. 

I  am  going  to  mount  the  Gog-magog  hills  this  morning  in 
quest  of  a  good  night's  sleep.  The  Gog-magog  hills  for  my 
body,  and  the  Bible  for  my  mind,  are  my  only  medicines.  I 
am  sorry  to  say  that  neither  are  quite  adequate.  Cui,  iaitur, 
dandum  est  vitio  ?  Mihi  prorsus.  I  hope,  as  the  summer 
comes,  my  spirits  (which  have  been  with,  the  swallows  t 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


147 


winter's  journey)  will  come  with  it.  When  my  spirits  are 
restored,  my  health  will  be  restored — the  fons  mali  lies  there. 
Give  me  serenity  and  equability  of  mind,  and  all  will  be  well 
there.  - 

*         *         *  * 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  11th  March,  180C. 

Dear  Neville, 

*  .  *  *  * 
I  hope  you  read  Mason  on  Self-knowledge  now  and  then. 
It  is  a  useful  book ;  and  it  will  help  you  greatly  in  framing 
your  spirit  to  the  ways  of  humility,  piety,  and  peace.  Reading, 
occasional  meditation,  and  constant  prayer,  will  infallibly  guide 
you  to  happiness,  as  far  as  we  can  he  happy  here  ;  and  will 
help  you  on  your  way  to  that  blessed  abode,  where  I  hope, 
ardently  hope,  we  shall  all  meet  hereafter  in  the  assembly  of 
the  saints.  Go  coolly  and  deliberately,  but  determinately,  to 
the  work  of  your  salvation.  Do  nothing  here  in  a  hurry ; 
deliberate  upon  everything;  take  your  steps  cautiously,  yet 
with  a  simple  reliance  on  the  mercy  of  your  G  od  and  Saviour ; 
and  wherever  you  see  your  duty  lie,  lose  no  time  in  acting  up 
to  it.  This  is  the  only  way  to  arrive  at  comfort  in  your 
Christian  career ;  and  the  constant  observance  of  this  maxim 
will,  with  the  assistance  of  God,  smooth  your  way  with  quiet- 
ness and  repose,  even  to  the  brink  of  eternity,  and  beyond  the 
gulf  that  bounds  it. 

I  had  almost  dropped  the  idea  of  seeing  Nottingham  this 
next  long  vacation,  as  my  stay  in  Cambridge  may  be  impor- 
tantly useful;  but  I  think,  now,  I  shall  go  down  for  my 
health's,  and  more  particularly  for  my  mother's  sake,  whom  my 
presence  will  comfort,  and  perhaps  help.  I  should  be  glad  to 
moor  all  my  family  in  the  harbour  of  religious  trust,  and  in  the 
calm  seas  of  religious  peace.  These  concerns  are  apt,  at  times, 
to  escape  me ;  but  they  now  press  much  upon  my  heart,  and 
I  think  it  is  my  first  duty  to  see  that  my  family  are  safe  in  the 
most  important  of  all  affairs. 


148 


LETTERS  OP 


TO  THE  REV.  J.  PLUMBTRE. 

St.  John's,  March  12th,  1800. 

Dear  Sir, 

I  hope  you  will  excuse  the  long  delay  which  I  have  made 
in  sending  the  song.  I  am  afraid  I  have  trespassed  on  your 
patience,  if  indeed  so  unimportant  a  subject  can  have  given 
you  any  thought  at  all.  If  you  think  it  worth  while  to  send 
the  song  to  your  publisher,  I  should  prefer  the  omission  of  the 
writer's  name,  as  the  insertion  of  it  would  only  be  a  piece  of 
idle  ostentation,  and  answer  no  end.  My  name  will  neither 
give  credit  to  the  verses,  nor  the  verses  confer  honour  on  my 
name. 

It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  that  your  labours  have 

been  successful  in  the  town  of  ,  where,  I  fear,  much  is  to 

be  done.  I  am  one  of  those  who  think  that  the  love  of  virtue 
is  not  sufficient  to  make  a  virtuous  man;  for  the  love  of  virtue 
is  a  mere  mental  preference  of  the  beautiful  to  the  deformed ; 
and  we  see  but  too  often  that  immediate  gratification  outweighs 
the  dictates  of  our  judgment.  If  men  could  always  perform 
their  duty  as  well  as  they  can  discern  it,  or  if  they  could  attend 
to  their  real  interests  as  well  as  they  can  see  them,  there  would 
be  little  occasion  for  moral  instruction.  Sir  Richard  Steele, 
who  wrote  like  a  saint,  and  who,  in  his  "  Christian  Hero,"  shows 
the  strongest  marks  of  a  religious  and  devout  heart,  lived,  not- 
withstanding all  this,  a  drunkard  and  a  debauchee.  And  what 
can  be  the  cause  of  this  apparent  contradiction  ?  Was  it  that 
he  had  not  strength  of  mind  to  act  up  to  his  views  ?  Then  a 
man's  salvation  may  depend  on  strength  of  intellect !  Or  does 
not  this  rather  show  that  superior  motives  are  wanting  ?  That 
assistance  is  yet  necessary,  when  the  ablest  of  men  has  done 
his  utmost  ?  If  then  such  aid  be  necessary,  how  can  it  be 
obtained  ? — by  a  virtuous  life  ? — Surely  not :  because,  to  live 
really  a  virtuous  life,  implies  this  aid  to  have  been  first  given. 
We  are  told  in  Scripture,  how  it  may  be  attained,  namely,  by 
humble  trust  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  as  our  atoning  sacri- 
fice. This,  therefore,  is  the  foundation  of  religious  life,  and 
as  such,  ouejht  to  be  the  fundamental  principle  of  religioua 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


149 


instruction.  This  is  the  test  of  our  obedience,  the  indispensable 
preliminary  before  we  can  enjoy  the  favour  of  God.  What, 
therefore,  can  we  urge  with  more  propriety  from  the  pulpit 
than  faith  ? — to  preach  morality  does  not  include  the  principle 
of  faith — to  preach  faith  includes  every  branch  of  morality,  at 
the  same  time  that  it  affords  it  its  present  sanctions,  and  its 
strongest  incitements. 

I  am  afraid  I  have  trespassed  on  your  patience,  and  I  must 
beg  of  you  to  excuse  the  badness  of  the  writing,  for  which  I 
have  the  plea  of  illness.  I  hope  your  health  is  yet  firm,  and 
that  God  will  in  mercy  prosper  your  endeavours  for  the  good 
of  your  flock. 

I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

H.  K.  White. 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

St.  John's,  Cambridge,  April,  1806. 

Dear  Mother, 

*         *         *  * 

I  am  quite  unhappy  to  see  you  so  anxious  on  my  account, 
and  also  that  you  should  think  me  neglectful  of  you.  Believe 
me,  my  dear  mother,  my  thoughts  are  often  with  you.  Never 
do  I  lay  myself  on  my  bed,  before  you  have  all  passed  before 
me  in  my  prayers ;  and  one  of  my  first  earthly  wishes  is  to 
make  you  comfortable,  and  provide  that  rest  and  quiet  for  your 
mind  which  you  so  much  need :  and  never  fear  but  I  shall 
have  it  in  my  power  some  time  or  other.  My  prospects  wear 
a  flattering  appearance.  I  shall  be  almost  sure  of  a  fellowship 
somewhere  or  other,  and  then,  if  I  get  a  curacy  in  Cambridge, 
I  shall  have  a  clear  income  of  1701.  per  annum,  besides  mj 
board  and  lodging,  perhaps  more.  If  I  do  not  reside  in  Cam- 
bridge, I  shall  have  some  quiet  parsonage,  where  you  may 
come  and  spend  the  summer  months.  Maria  and  Kate  will 
then  be  older,  and  you  will  be  less  missed.  On  all  accounts 
you  have  much  reason  to  indulge  happier  dreams.  My  health 
is  considerably  better.    Only  do  you  take  as  much  care  of 


150 


LETTERS  OF 


yours  as  I  do  of  mine,  and  all  will  be  well.    I  exhort,  and 
intreat,  and  beseech  you,  as  you  love  me,  and  all  your  children, 
that  you  will  take  your  bitters  without  ceasing.    As  you  wish 
me  to  pay  regard  to  your  exhortations,  attend  to  this. 
*         *         *  * 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

St.  John's,  April,  1806. 

Dear  Mother, 

I  am  a  good  deal  surprised  at  not  having  heard  from  you 
in  answer  to  my  last.  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  the  pur- 
port of  my  present  letter ;  which  is  no  less  than  that  I  shall 
spend  the  ensuing  Easter  vacation  in  Nottingham.  The  reasons 
which  have  induced  me  to  make  this  so  wide  an  alteration  in 
my  plan,  are  these  :  I  have  had  some  symptoms  of  the  return 
of  my  old  complaint,  and  both  my  doctor  and  tutor  think  I  had 
better  take  a  fortnight's  relaxation  at  home.  I  hope  you  will 
not  think  I  have  neglected  exercise,  since  I  have  taken  more 
this  term  than  I  ever  did  before  ;  but  I  shall  enlarge  my  hours 
of  recreation  still  more,  since  I  find  it  necessary,  for  my  health's 
sake,  so  to  do. 

You  need  not  give  yourself  any  uneasiness  as  to  my  health, 
for  I  am  quite  recovered.  I  was  chiefly  afflicted  with  sleep- 
lessness and  palpitations  of  the  heart,  which  symptoms  have 
now  disappeared,  and  I  am  quite  restored  to  my  former  good 
health.  My  journey  will  re-establish  me  completely,  and  it 
will  give  me  no  small  pleasure  to  see  you  after  so  long  an 
absence  from  home.  1  shall  be  very  idle  while  I  am  at  Notting- 
ham ;  I  shall  only  amuse  myseli  with  teaching  Maria  and  Kate. 
*         *         $  * 


(supposed  to  be  addressed) 
TO  MRS.  WEST. 

I  have  stolen  your  first  volume  of  Letters  from  the  chimney- 
piece  of  a  college  friend,  and  I  have  been  so  much  pleased  both 
with  the  spirit,  conduct,  and  style  of  the  work,  that  I  camiot 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


151 


refrain  from  rating  to  tell  you  so.  I  shall  read  the  remaining 
volumes  immediately ;  but  as  I  am  at  this  moment  just  in  that 
desultory  mood  when  a  man  can  best  write  a  letter,  I  have 
determined  not  to  delay  what,  if  I  defer  at  all,  I  shall  probably 
not  do  at  all. 

Well,  then,  my  dear  Madam,  although  I  have  insidiously 
given  you  to  understand,  that  I  write  to  tell  you  how  much  I 
approve  your  work,  I  will  be  frank  enough  to  tell  you  likewise, 
that  I  think,  in  one  point,  it  is  faulty ;  and  that,  if  I  had  not 
discovered  what  I  consider  to  be  a  defect  in  the  book,  I  should 
probably  not  have  written  for  the  mere  purpose  of  declaiming 
on  its  excellences. 

Start  not,  Madam ;  it  is  in  that  very  point  whereon  you 
have  bestowed  most  pains,  that  I  think  the  work  is  faulty — 
Religion.  If  I  mistake  not,  there  will  be  some  little  confusion 
of  idea  detected,  if  we  examine  this  part  narrowly ;  and  as  I 
am  not  quite  idle  enough  to  write  my  opinions  without  giving 
the  reasons  for  them,  I  will  endeavour  to  explain  why  I 
think  so. 

Religion,  then,  Madam,  I  conceive  to  be  the  service  a 
creature  owes  to  his  Creator ;  and  I  take  it  for  granted,  that 
service  implies  some  self-denial,  and  some  labour ;  for  if  it  did 
not  involve  something  unpleasing  to  ourselves,  it  would  be 
a  duty  we  should  all  of  necessity  perform.  Well,  then,  if 
religion  call  for  self-denial,  there  must  be  some  motive  to 
induce  men  voluntarily  to  undergo  such  privations  as  may  be 
consequent  on  a  religious  life,  and  those  motives  must  be  such 
as  a3ect  either  the  present  state  of  existence,  or  some  other 
future  state  of  existence.  Certainly,  then,  those  motives 
which  arise  from  the  expectation  of  a  future  state  of  existence, 
must,  in  reality,  be  infinitely  more  important  than  those  which  ' 
are  founded  in  temporal  concerns,  although,  to  mankind,  the 
immediate  presence  of  temporal  things  may  outweigh  the 
distant  apprehension  of  the  future.  Granting,  therefore,  that 
the  future  world  is  the  main  object  of  our  religious  exercises, 
it  will  follow,  that  they  are  the  most  important  concerns  of  a 
man's  life,  and  that  every  other  consideration  is  light  and 
trifling  in  the  comparison.   For  the  world  to  come  is  ever- 


152 


LETTERS  OP 


lasting,  while  the  present  world  is  but  very  short.  Foolish, 
then,  indeed,  and  short-sighted  must  that  creature  he,  which 
can  prefer  the  conveniences  and  accommodations  of  the 
present,  to  the  happiness  of  the  eternal  future. 

All  Christians,  therefore,  who  undertake  to  lay  down  a  chart 
for  the  young  and  ir  experienced,  by  which  they  may  steer 
with  security  through  the  ocean  of  life,  will  be  expected  to 
make  religion  a  prominent  feature  on  the  canvas;  and  that 
too,  not  only  by  giving  it  a  larger  space,  but  by  enforcing  the 
superiority  of  this  consideration  to  every  other.  Now  this  is 
what  I  humbly  conceive  you  have  not  altogether  done ;  and 
I  think,  indeed,  if  I  be  competent  to  judge,  you  have  failed 
in  two  points ; — in  making  religion  only  a  subordinate  con- 
sideration to  a  young  man,  and  in  not  defining  distinctly  the 
essentials  of  religion. 

I  would  ask  you,  then,  in  what  way  you  so  impress  religion 
on  the  mind  of  your  son,  as  one  would  expect  that  person 
would  impress  it,  who  was  conscious  that  it  was  of  the  first 
importance.  Do  you  instruct  him  to  turn  occasionally,  when 
his  leisure  may  permit,  to  pious  and  devout  meditation  ?  Do 
you  direct  him  to  make  religion  the  one  great  aim  and  end  of 
his  being?  Do  you  exhort  him  to  frequent  private  and 
earnest  prayer  to  the  Spirit  of  Holiness,  that  he  would 
sanctify  all  his  doings  ?  Do  you  teach  him  that  the  praise, 
or  the  censure,  the  admiration,  or  the  contempt,  of  the  world, 
is  of  little  importance,  so  as  his  heart  be  right  before  the 
Great  Judge  ?  Do  you  tell  him  that,  as  his  reason  now  opens, 
he  should  gradually  withdraw  from  the  gayer  and  occasionally 
more  unlicensed  diversions  of  the  world — the  ball-room,  the 
theatre,  and  the  public  concert,  in  order  that  he  may  abstract 
•  his  mind  more  from  the  too -fascinating  delights  of  life,  and 
fit  himself  for  the  new  scene  of  existence,  which  will,  sooner 
or  later,  open  upon  Ins  view  ?  No,  Madam,  I  think  you  do 
not  do  this.  You  tell  him  there  is  a  deal  of  enthusiasm  in 
persons  who,  though  they  mean  well,  are  over-strict  in  their 
religious  performances.  You  tell  him,  that  assemblies,  dances, 
theatres,  are  elegant  amusements,  though  you  couple  the  fine 
arts  with  them,  which  I  am  sorry  to  see  in  such  company.  I, 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


153 


too,  am  enthusiastically  attached  to  the  fine  arts.  Poetry, 
painting,  and  music,  are  amongst  my  most  delicious  and 
chastest  pleasures  ;  and  happy,  indeed,  do  I  feel,  when  I  can 
make  even  these  contribute  to  the  great  end,  and  draw  my 
soul  from  its  sphere,  to  fix  it  on  its  Maker  and  Redeemer. 
I  am  fond,  too,  of  tragedy ;  and  though  I  do  not  find  it  with 
so  much  purity  and  chastity  in  Shakespeare  as  in  the  old 
Greek  dramatists,  yet  I  know  how  to  appreciate  its  beauties 
in  him  too.    Besides  these,  I  have  a  thousand  other  amuse- 
ments of  the  most  refined  nature,  without  either  theatres, 
balls,  or  card-tables.    The  theatre  is  not  in  itself  an  immoral 
institution,  but  in  its  present  state  it  is ;  and  I  feel  much  for 
an  uncorrupted,  frank  lad  of  fourteen,  who  is  permitted  to 
visit  this  stew  of  licentiousness,  impudence,  and  vice.  Your 
plan  seems  to  me  this : — Teach  a  boy  to  lead  an  honest, 
upright  life,  and  to  do  his  duty,  and  he  will  gain  the  good- 
will of  God  by  the  very  tenour  of  his  actions.    This  is,  indeed, 
an  easy  kind  of  religion,  for  it  involves  no  selj -denial ;  but 
true  religion  does  involve  self-denial.     The  inference  is 
obvious.     I  say  it  involves  no  self-denial;  because  a  well- 
educated,  sensible  lad  will  see  so  many  inconveniences  in 
vicious  indulgences,  that  he  will  choose  the  virtuous  by  a 
natural  effort  of  the  understanding ;  and  so,  according  to  this 
system,  he  will  ensure  heaven  by  the  soundness  of  his  policy, 
and  the  rectitude  of  his  understanding. 

Admitting  this  to  be  a  true  doctrine,  Christianity  has  been 
of  no  material  service  to  mankind ;  and  the  Son  of  God  might 
have  spared  his  blood :  for  the  heathens  knew  all  this,  and  not 
only  knew  it,  but  many  of  them  put  it  into  practice.  What 
then  has  Christianity  done  ?  But  the  Scripture  teaches  us 
the  reverse  of  this:  it  teaches  us  to  give  God  our  whole 
heart,  to  live  to  him,  to  pray  continually,  and  to  fix  our  affec- 
tions, not  on  things  temporal,  but  on  things  eternal.  Now, 
I  ask  you,  whether,  without  any  sophistry,  or  any  perversion 
of  the  meaning  of  words,  you  can  reconcile  this  with  your 
religious  instruction  to  your  son  ? 

I  think,  likewise,  that  you  do  not  define  the  essentials  of 
religion  distinctly.    We  are  either  saved  by  the  atonement  of 


LETTERS  OF 


Jesus  Christ,  or  we  are  not ;  and  if  we  are,  then  all  men 
are  necessarily  saved,  or  some  are  necessarily  not  saved;, 
and  if  some  are  not  saved,  it  must  be  from  causes  either 
existing  in  the  individuals  themselves,  or  from  causes 
existing  in  the  economy  of  God's  dispensations.  Now,. 
Madam,  we  are  told  that  Jesus  Christ  died  for  all ;  but  we 
grant  that  all  are  not  saved.  Why  then  are  some  not  saved? 
It  is  because  they  do  not  act  in  a  manner  worthy  of  God's 
favour !  Then  a  man's  salvation  depends  upon  his  actions. 
But  we  are  told  in  Scripture,  that  it  does  not  depend  on  his 
actions — "By  faith  are  ye  saved,  without  the  works  of  the  law:" 
therefore  it  either  must  depend  on  some  other  ehort  of  the 
creature,  or  on  the  will  of  the  Creator.  I  will  not  dispute 
the  question  of  Calvinism  with  you ;  I  will  grant  that  Cal- 
vinism is  indefensible ;  but  this  all  must  concede  who  believe 
the  Scriptures — that  we  are  to  be  saved  by  faith  only  through 
Jesus  Christ.  I  ask,  therefore,  whether  you  have  taught  this 
to  your  son ;  and  I  ask  whether  there  is  one  trait  in  your 
instructions,  in  common  with  the  humbling,  self-denying 
religion  taught  by  the  Apostles,  by  the  homilies  of  our  Church, 
and  by  all  the  reformers  r  The  chief  argument  of  the  latter 
against  the  Romish  church,  was  their  asserting  the  validity  of 
works.  Now,  what  ideas  must  your  son  have  of  Christian 
faith  ?  You  say,  that  even  Shakespeare's  debauchees  icere 
believers  ;  and  he  is  given  to  understand,  that  he  is  a  good 
Christian,  if  he  do  his  duty  to  his  master  and  fellows,  go  to 
church  every  Sunday,  and  keep  clear  of  enthusiasm.  And 
what  has  Jesus  Christ  to  do  with  your  system  ?  and  where  is 
that  faith  banished,  of  which  every  page  of  Scripture  is  full? 
Can  this  be  right  ?  "  Closet  devotion  "  is  the  means  of  attain- 
ing faith ;  and  humble  prayer  is  the  true  means  of  arriving  at 
fervency  in  religion,  without  enthusiasm.  You  condemn 
Socinianism ;  but  I  ask  you  where  Jesus  Christ  appears  in  your 
scheme,  and  why  the  influences  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  even 
his  names,  are  banished  from  it  ? 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


TO  MR.  P.  THOMPSON. 

Nottingham,  April  8th,  1806. 

Dear  Sir, 

I  sincerely  beg  your  pardon  for  my  ungrateful  disregard 
of  your  polite  letter  .The  intervening  period  has  been  so  much 
taken  up,  on  the  one  hand,  by  ill  health,  and  on  the  other,  by 
occupations  of  the  most  indispensable  kind,  that  I  have  neg- 
lected almost  all  my  friends,  and  you  amongsi  the  rest.  I  am 
now  at  Nottingham,  a  truant  from  study,  and  a  rejected  votary 
at  the  shrine  of  Health ;  a  few  days  will  bring  me  back  to  the 
margin  of  the  Cam,  and  bury  me  once  more  in  the  busy 
routine  of  college  exercises.  Before,  however,  I  am  again  a 
man  of  bustle  and  occupation,  I  snatch  a  few  moments  to  tell 
you  how  much  I  shall  be  gratified  by  your  correspondence, 
and  how  greatly  I  think  myself  nattered  by  your  esteeming 
mine  worth  asking  for. 

The  little  sketch  of  your  past  occupations,  and  present 
pursuits,  interested  me.  Cultivate,  with  all  assiduity,  the 
taste  for  letters  which  you  possess.  It  will  be  a  source 
of  exquisite  gratification  to  you ;  and  if  directed  as  it  ought 
to  be,  and  I  hope  as  it  will  be  directed,  it  will  be  more  than 
gratification  (if  we  understand  pleasure  alone  by  that  word), 
since  it  will  combine  with  it  utility  of  the  highest  kind.  If 
polite  letters  were  merely  instrumental  in  cheering  the  hours 
of  elegant  leisure,  in  affording  refined  and  polished  pleasures, 
uncontaminated  with  gross  and  sensual  gratifications,  they 
would  still  be  valuable ;  but  in  a  degree  infinitely  less  than 
when  they  are  considered  as  the  handmaids  of  the  virtues,  the 
correctors  as  well  as  the  adorners  of  society.  But  literature 
has,  of  late  years,  been  prostituted  to  all  the  purposes  of  the 
bagnio.  Poetry,  in  particular,  arrayed  in  her  most  bewitching 
colours,  has  been  taught  to  exercise  the  arts  of  the  Leno,  and 
to  charm  only  that  she  may  destroy.  The  muse,  who  once 
dipped  her  hardy  wing  in  the  chastest  dews  of  Castalia,  and 
spoke  nothing  but  what  had  a  tendency  to  confirm  and 
invigorate  the  manly  ardour  of  a  virtuous  mind,  now  breathes 
only  the  voluptuous  languishings  of  the  harlot,  and,  like  the- 


156 


LETTERS  OP 


brood  of  Circe,  touches  her  charmed  cords  with  a  grace,  that, 
while  it  ravishes  the  ear,  deludes  and  beguiles  the  sense.  I 
call  to  witness  Mr.  Moore,  and  the  tribe  of  imitators  which 
his  success  has  called  forth,  that  my  statement  is  true.  Lord 
Strangford  has  trodden  faithfully  in  the  steps  of  his  pattern. 
*  *  *  * 

I  hope,  for  the  credit  of  poetry,  that  the  good  sense  of  the 
age  will  scout  this  insidious  school ;  and  what  may  we  not 
expect,  if  Moore  and  Lord  Strangford  apply  themselves  to  a 
chaster  muse?  They  are  both  men  of  uncommon  powers. 
You  may  remember  the  reign  of  Darwinian  poetry,  and  the 
fopperies  of  Delia  Crusca.  To  these  succeeded  the  school  of 
simplicity,  in  which  Wordsworth,  Southey,  and  Coleridge, 
are  so  deservedly  eminent.  I  think  that  the  new  tribe  of  poets 
endeavour  to  combine  these  two  opposite  sects,  and  to  unite 
richness  of  language,  and  warmth  of  colouring,  with  simplicity 
and  pathos.  They  have  certainly  succeeded;  but  Moore 
unhappily  wished  to  be  a  Catullus,  and  from  him  has  sprung 
the  licentiousness  of  the  new  school.  Moore's  poems  and  his 
translations  will,  I  think,  have  more  influence  on  the  female 
society  of  this  kingdom,  than  the  stage  has  had  in  its  worst 
period,  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  Ladies  are  not  ashamed  of 
having  the  delectable  Mr.  Little  on  their  toilette,  which  is  a 
pretty  good  proof  that  his  voluptuousness  is  considered  as 
quite  veiled  by  the  sentimental  garb  in  which  it  is  clad.  But 
voluptuousness  is  not  the  less  dangerous  for  having  some  slight 
semblance  of  the  veil  of  modesty.  On  the  contrary,  her  fasci- 
nations are  infinitely  more  powerful  in  this  retiring  habit, 
than  when  she  boldly  protrudes  herself  on  the  gazer's  eye,  and 
openly  solicits  his  attention.  The  broad  indecency  of  Wycher- 
ley,  and  his  cotemporaries,  was  not  half  so  dangerous  as  this 
insinuating  and  half-covered  moc^-delicacy,  which  makes  use 
of  the  blush  of  modesty  in  order  to  heighten  the  charms  of  vice. 

I  must  conclude  somewhat  abruptly,  by  begging  you  will 
not  punish  my  negligence  towards  you,  by  retarding  the  plea- 
sure I  shall  receive  from  your  answer. 

I  am,  very  truly  yours, 

H.  K.  White. 

Address  to  me,  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


157 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  May,  1806. 

My  dear  Neville, 

*  *         *  * 

My  long  delayed  and  very  anciently  promised  letter  to 
Charlesworth  will  reach  him  shortly.  Tell  him  that  I  have 
written  one  to  him  in  Latin,  but  that  having  torn  the  paper  in 
two  by  mistake,  I  could  not  summon  resolution  to  copy  it. 

I  was  glad  to  hear  of  the  eclat  with  which  he  disputed,  and 
came  off  on  so  difficult  a  subject  as  the  Nerves ;  and  I  beg  ot 
dim,  if  he  have  made  any  discoveries,  to  communicate  them  to 
me,  who,  being  persecuted  by  these  same  nerves,  should  be 
glad  to  have  some  better  acquaintance  with  my  invisible 
enemies. 

*  ♦         *  » 


TO  HIS  SISTER. 

St.  John's,  June  25th,  1806. 

My  dear  Sister, 

*  *         *  * 

The  intelligence  you  gave  me  of  Mr.  Forest's  illness,  &c9 
cannot  affect  me  in  any  way  whatever.  The  mastership 
of  the  school  must  be  held  by  a  clergyman  ;  and  I  very  well 
recollect  that  he  is  restrained  from  holding  any  curacy,  or 
other  ministerial  office.  The  salary  is  not  so  large  as  you 
mention;  and  if  it  were,  the  place  would  scarcely  be  an  object 
to  me ;  for  I  am  very  certain,  that  if  I  choose,  when  I  have 
taken  my  degree,  I  may  have  half  a  dozen  pupils,  to  prepare 
for  the  university,  with  a  salary  of  100Z.  per  annum,  which 
would  be  more  respectable,  and  more  consonant  to  my  habits 
and  studies,  than  drilling  the  fry  of  a  trading  town,  in  learning 
which  they  do  not  know  how  to  value.  Latin  and  Greek  are 
nothing  like  so  much  respected  in  Nottingham  as  Wingate's 
Arithmetic. 

*  *         *  * 

It  is  well  for  you  that  you  can  still  enjoy  the  privilege  of 
sitting  under  the  sound  of  the  gospel;  and  the  wants  of  others. 


158 


LETTERS  OF 


in  these  respects,  will,  perhaps,  teach  you  how  to  value  the 
blessings.  All  our  comforts,  and  almost  all  our  hopes,  here 
lie  at  the  mercy  of  every  succeeding  hoar.  Death  is  always 
at  hand  to  bereave  us  of  some  dear  connexion,  or  to  snatch  us 
away  from  those  who  may  need  our  counsel  and  protection. 
I  do  not  see  how  any  person,  capable  of  reflection,  can  live 
•easily  and  fearlessly  in  these  circumstances,  unless  he  have  a 
well-grounded  confidence  in  the  providing  care  of  the  Almighty, 
and  a  strong  belief  that  his  hand  is  in  every  event,  and  that  it 
is  a  hand  of  mercy.  The  chances  and  changes  of  mortal  life 
are  so  many  and  various,  that  a  person  cannot  possibly  fortify 
himself  against  the  contingencies  of  futurity  without  some 
such  hold  as  this,  on  which  to  repose  amidst  the  contending 
gales  of  doubt  and  apprehension.  This  I  say  as  affecting  the 
present  life : — our  views  of  the  future  can  never  be  secure, 
they  can  never  be  comfortable  or  calm  without  a  solid  faith  in 
the  Redeemer.  Men  may  reason  about  the  divine  benevolence, 
the  certainty  of  a  future  state,  and  the  probable  means  of 
propitiating  the  Great  Judge,  but  their  speculations  will  only 
entangle  them  in  the  mazes  of  doubt,  perplexity,  and  alarm, 
unless  they  found  their  hopes  on  that  basis  which  shall  out- 
stand  the  tide  of  ages.  If  we  take  this  away,  the  poor  bark 
of  mortality  loses  its  only  stay,  and  we  steer  at  random,  we 
know  not  how,  we  know  not  whither :  the  religion  of  Jesus 
Christ  is  strength  to  the  weak,  and  wisdom  to  the  unwise.  It 
requires  no  preparatives  of  learning  or  study,  but  is,  if  pos- 
sible, more  obvious  and  easy  to  the  illiterate  than  to  the  erudite. 
N o  man,  therefore,  has  any  excuse  if  he  neglect  it.  The  way 
is  plain  before  him,  and  he  is  invited  to  enter.  He  has  only 
to  kneel  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  cry,  with  the  poor  pub- 
lican, "  Lord  have  mercy  upon  me,  a  miserable  sinner."  If 
he  do  this,  and  examine  his  own  heart,  and  mortify  the  body 
of  sin  within  him,  as  far  as  he  is  able,  humbly  and  earnestly 
imploring  the  assistance  of  God's  holy  spirit,  we  cannot  doubt 
but  he  will  meet  with  the  approbation  and  assistance  of  the 
Almighty.  In  this  path  we  must  all  tread.  In  this  path  I 
hope  that  you,  my  dear  sister,  are  now  proceeding.  You  have 
children ;  to  whom  can  you  cpnimit  them,  should  Providence 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


159 


<call  you  hence,  with  more  confidence  than  the  meek  and  bene- 
volent Jesus  ?  What  legacy  can  you  leave  them  more  certainly 
profitable  than  the  prayers  of  a  pious  mother  ?  And,  if  taught 
by  your  example,  as  well  as  by  your  instructions,  they  should 
become  themselves  patterns  of  a  holy  and  religious  life,  how 
sweetly  will  the  evening  of.  your  days  shine  upon  your  head, 
as  you  behold  them  treading  in  those  ways  which  you  know, 
by  experience,  to  be  ways  of  pleasantness  and  peace  !  I  need 
not  press  this  subject.  I  know  you  feel  all  that  I  say,  and 
more  than  I  can  express.  I  only  fear  that  the  bustle  of  family 
cares,  as  well  as  many  anxieties  of  mind  on  other  accounts, 
should  too  much  divert  you  from  these  important  objects. 
Let  me  only  remind  you,  that  the  prayers  of  the  afflicted  are 
particularly  acceptable  to  God.  The  sigh  of  the  penitent  is 
not  too  light  to  reach  his  ear.  The  eye  of  God  is  fixed  as 
intently  upon  your  soul,  at  all  times,  as  it  is  upon  the  revo- 
lution of  the  heavenly  bodies,  and  the  regulation  of  systems. 
God  surveys  all  things,  and  he  contemplates  them  with  perfect 
attention;  and,  consequently,  he  is  as  intently  conversant 
about  the  smallest  as  about  the  greatest  things.  For  if  he 
were  not  as  perfectly  intent  on  the  soul  of  an  individual  being, 
as  he  is  about  the  general  concerns  of  the  universe,  then  he 
would  do  one  thing  less  perfectly  than  another :  which  is 
impossible  in  God. 

*         *         *  # 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  June  30th,  1806. 

Dear  Neville, 

I  received  your  letter  yesterday;  and  I  hope  you  will  not 
think  my  past  silence  at  all  in  need  of  apology,  when  you  know 
that  our  examination  only  closed  on  Saturday. 

I  have  the  satisfaction  of  informing  you  that,  after  a  week's 
scrutiny,  I  was  deemed  to  be  the  first  man.  I  had  very  little 
hopes  of  arriving  at  so  distinguishing  a  station,  on  account  ot 
my  many  checks  and  interruptions.  It  gave  me  great  pleasure 
to  observe  how  all  the  men  rejoiced  in  my  success.    It  was  on 


160 


LETTERS  OP 


Monday  that  the  classes  were  published.  I  am  a  f)rize-man 
both  in  the  mathematical  and  logical,  or  general  examination, 
and  in  Latin  composition. 

Mr.  Catton  has  expressed  his  great  satisfaction  at  my  pro- 
gress ;  and  he  has  offered  to  supply  me  with  a  private  tutor 
for  the  four  months  of  the  vacation,  free  of  any  expense.  This 
will  cost  the  college  twelve  or  fifteen  guineas  at  least.  My 
last  term  bill  amounts  only  to  4Z.  5  s.  od.  after  my  exhibitions 
are  deducted. 

I  had  engaged  to  take  charge  of  a  few  classical  pupils  for  a 
clergyman  in  Warwickshire,  during  one  month  of  the  vacation, 
for  which  I  was  to  receive,  besides  my  board,  &c.  &c,  ten 
guineas  ;  but  Mr.  Catton  says  this  is  a  piece  of  extreme  lolly, 
as  it  will  consume  time,  and  do  me  no  good.  He  told  me, 
therefore,  positively,  that  he  would  not  give  me  an  exeat, 
without  which  no  man  can  leave  his  college  for  a  night. 

I  cannot,  therefore,  at  all  events,  visit  Nottingham  with  my 
aunt,  nor  meet  her  there. 

I  could  now,  if  I  chose,  leave  St.  John's  College,  and  go  to 
another,  with  great  eclat  ;  but  it  would  be  an  unadvisable 
step.  I  believe,  however,  it  will  be  impossible  for  them  to 
elect  me  fellow  at  St.  John's,  as  my  county  is  under  particular 
restrictions.  They  can  give  me  a  fellowship  of  smaller  value, 
but  I  had  rather  get  one  at  another  college :  at  all  events,  the 
smaller  colleges  will  be  glad  to  elect  me  from  St.  John's. 
*  *      *         *  * 

With  regard  to  cash,  I  manage  pretty  well,  though  my 
fund  is  at  present  at  its  lowest  ebb.  My  bills,  however,  are 
paid ;  and  I  have  no  occasion  for  money,  except  as  a  private 
convenience.  The  question  therefore  is,  whether  it  will  be 
more  inconvenient  to  you  than  convenient  to  me,  for  you  to 
replenish  my  purse.  Decide  impartially.  I  have  not  drawn 
upon  my  mother  since  Christmas,  except  for  the  expense  of  my 
journey  up  from  Nottingham  to  Cambridge ;  nor  do  I  mean  to 
do  it  till  next  Christmas,  when,  as  I  have  ordered  a  suit  of 
clothes,  I  shall  have  a  good  many  calls  for  money. 
Let  me  nave  a  long  letter  from  you  soon. 

*         *         *  * 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


161 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

St.  John's,  July  9th,  1806. 

My  dear  Mother, 

I  have  scarcely  time  to  write  you  a  long  letter ;  but  tlie 
pleasing  nature  of  my  intelligence  will,  I  hope,  make  up  for  its 
shortness. 

After  a  week's  examination,  I  am  decided  to  be  the  best, 
man  of  my  year  at  St.  John's  ;  an  honour  I  had  scarcely  hoped 
for,  since  my  reading  has  been  so  very  broken  and  interrupted. 
The  contest  was  very  stiff,  and  the  men  all  acquitted  themselves 
very  well.  We  had  thirteen  men  in  the  first  class,  though 
there  are  seldom  more  than  six  or  eight  who  attain  that  rank 
in  common. 

I  have  learned  also,  that  I  am  a  prize-man  in  classical  com- 
position, though  I  do  not  yet  know  whereabouts  I  stand.  It 
is  reported  that  here,  too,  I  am  first. 

Before  it  was  known  that  I  was  the  first  man,  Mr.  Cation, 
our  college  tutor,  told  me  that  he  was  so  satisfied  with  the 
manner  in  which  I  had  passed  through  the  examination,  chat  if 
I  chose  to  stay  up  during  the  summer,  I  should  have  a  private 
tutor  in  the  mathematics,  and  that  it  should  be  no  expense  to 
me.  I  could  not  hesitate  at  such  a  proposal,  especially  as  he 
did  not  limit  the  time  for  my  keeping  the  prvate  tutor,  but 
will  probably  continue  it  as  long  as  I  like.  You  may  estimate 
the  value  of  this  favour,  when  I  tell  you  that  a  private  tutor, 
lor  the  whole  vacation,  will  cost  the  college  at  least  twelve  or 
fourteen  guineas,  and  that  during  term  time  they  receive  ten 
guineas  the  term. 

I  cannot  of  course  leave  the  college  this  summer,  even  for  a 
week,  and  shall  therefore  miss  the  pleasure  of  seeing  my  Aunt 

G  at  Nottingham.    I  have  written  to  her. 

It  gave  me  much  pleasure  to  observe  the  joy  all  the  men 
seemed  to  feel  at  my  success.  1  had  been  on  a  water  excur- 
sion with  a  clergyman  r\  the  neighbourhood,  and  some  ladies, 
and  just  got  home  as  the  men  were  assembling  for  supper ; 
you  can  hardly  conceive  with  what  pleasure  they  all  flocked 

M 


162  LETTERS  OF 

round  me,  with  the  most  hearty  congratulations,  and  I  found 
that  many  of  them  had  been  seeking  me  all  over  the  college, 
in  order  to  be  the  first  to  communicate  the  good  tidings. 
«         *         *  * 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.  John's,  July,  1808. 

My  dear  Friend, 

I  have  good  and  very  bad  news  to  communicate  to  you. 
Good,  that  Mr.  Catton  has  given  me  an  exhibition,  which 
makes  me  up  a  clear  hicome  of  63Z.  per  annum,  and  that  I  am 
consequently  more  than  independent ;  bad,  that  I  have  been 
very  ill,  notwithstanding  regular  and  steady  exercise.  Last 
Saturday  morning  I  rose  early,  and  got  up  some  rather  abstruse 
problems  in  mechanics  for  my  tutor,  spent  an  hour  with  him, 
between  eight  and  nine  got  my  breakfast,  and  read  the  Greek 
History  (at  breakfast)  till  ten,  then  sat  down  to  decipher 
some  logarithm  tables.  I  think  I  had  not  done  anything  at 
them,  when  I  lost  myself.  At  a  quarter  past  eleven  my  laun- 
dress found  me  bleeding  in  four  different  places  in  my  face  and 
nead,  and  insensible.  I  got  up,  and  staggered  about  the  room, 
and  she,  being  frightened,  ran  away,  and  told  my  gyp  to  fetch 
a  surgeon.  Before  he  came,  I  was  sallying  out  Mrith  my  flannel 
gown  on,  and  my  academical  gown  over  it :  he  made  me  put 
on  my  coat,  and  then  I  went  to  Mr.  Parish's :  he  opened  a 
vein,  and  my  recollection  returned.  My  own  idea  was,  that  I 
had  fallen  out  of  bed,  and  so  I  told  Mr.  Parish  at  first ;  but  I 
afterwards  remembered  that  I  had  been  to  Mr.  Fiske,  and 
breakfasted. 

Mr.  Catton  has  insisted  on  my  consulting  Sir  Isaac  Pen- 
nington, and  the  consequence  is,  that  I  am  to  go  through  a 
course  of  blistering,  &c.,  which,  after  the  bleeding,  will  leave 
ine  weak  enough. 

I  am,  however,  very  well,  except  as  regards  the  doctors ; 
and  yesterday  I  drove  into  the  country  to  Saffron  Walden  hi  a 
gig.  My  tongue  is  in  a  bad  condition,  from  a  bite  which  I 
gave  it,  either  in  my  fall,  or  in  the  moments  of  convulsion. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


1G3 


My  nose  has  also  come  badly  off.  I  believe  I  fell  against  my 
reading-desk.  My  other  wounds  are  only  rubs  and  scratches 
on  the  carpet. 

I  am  ordered  to  remit  my  studies  for  awhile,  by  the  com- 
mon advice  both  of  doctors  and  tutors.  Dr.  Pennington  hopes 
to  prevent  any  recurrence  of  the  fit.  He  thinks  it  looks 
towards  epilepsy,  of  the  horrors  of  which  malady  I  have  a  very 
full  and  precise  idea ;  and  I  only  pray  that  God  will  spare  me 
as  respects  my  faculties,  however  else  it  may  seem  good  to 
him  to  afflict  me.  Were  I  my  own  master,  I  know  how  I 
should  act ;  but  I  am  tied  here  by  bands  which  I  cannot  burst. 
I  know  that  change  of  place  is  needful ;  but  I  must  not  in- 
dulge in  the  idea.  The  college  must  not  pay  my  tutor  for 
nothing.  Dr.  Pennington  and  Mr.  Parish  attribute  the  attack 
to  a  too  continued  tension  of  the  faculties.  As  I  am  much 
alone  now,  I  never  get  quite  off  study,  and  I  think  inces- 
santly. I  know  nature  will  not  endure  this.  They  both  pro- 
posed my  going  home,  but  Mr.    did  not  hint  at  it, 

although  much  concerned;  and,  indeed,  I  know  home  would 
be  a  bad  place  for  me  in  my  present  situation.  I  look  round 
for  a  resting-place,  and  I  find  none.  Yet  there  is  one,  which 
I  have  long  too,  too  much  disregarded,  and  thither  I  must  now 
betake  myself.  There  are  many  situations  worse  than  mine, 
and  I  have  no  business  to  complain.  If  these  afflictions  should 
draw  the  bonds  tighter  which  hold  me  to  my  Redeemer,  it 
will  be  well. 

You  may  be  assured  that  you  have  here  a  plain  statement 
of  my  case,  in  its  true  colours,  without  any  palliation.    I  am 
now  well  again,  and  have  only  to  fear  a  relapse,  which  I  shall 
do  all  I  can  to  prevent,  by  a  relaxation  in  study. 
I  have  now  written  too  much. 

I  am,  very  sincerely,  yours, 

H.  K.  White. 

P.S.  I  charge  you,  as  you  value  my  peace,  not  to  let  my 
friends  hear,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  of  my  illness. 


ii  2 


16-4 


LETTERS  OF 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  30th  July,  1806. 

My  dear  Neville, 

I  had  deferred  sitting  down  to  write  to  you  until  I  should 
have  leisure  to  send  you  a  very  long  letter ;  but  as  that  time 
seems  every  day  farther  off,  I  shall  beg  your  patience  no 
longer,  but  fill  my  sheet  as  well  as  I  can. 

I  must  first  reply  to  your  queries.  I  beg  pardon  for  having 
omitted  to  mention  the  receipt  of  the  ,  but,  as  I  acknow- 
ledged the  receipt  of  the  parcel,  I  concluded  that  you  would 
understand  me  to  mean  its  contents  as  specified  in  your  letter. 
But  I  know  the  accuracy  of  a  man  of  business  too  well  to 
think  your  caution  strange.  As  to  the  college  prizes,  I  have 
the  satisfaction  of  telling  you  that  I  am  entitled  to  two— viz., 
the  first  for  the  general  examination,  and  one  of  the  first  for 
the  classical  composition.  I  say  one  of  the  first  on  this  ac- 
count— I  am  put  equal  with  two  others  at  the  top  of  the  list. 
In  this  contest,  I  had  all  the  men  of  the  three  years  to  contend 
with,  and,  as  both  my  equals  are  my  seniors  in  standing,  I 
have  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied. 

*  *         *  * 

The  Rhetoric  Lecturer  sent  me  one  of  my  Latin  Essays  to 
copy,  for  the  purpose  of  inspection;  a  comoliment  which  was 
paid  to  none  of  the  rest. 

*  *         *  * 

We  three  are  the  only  men  who  are  honoured  with  prizes,  so 
that  we  have  cut  four  or  five  Eton  men,  who  are  always  boast- 
ing of  their  classical  ability. 

With  regard  to  your  visit  here,  I  think  you  had  better  come 
in  term  time,  as  the  university  is  quits  empty,  and  starers 
have  nothing  but  the  buildings  to  gaze  at.  If,  however,  you 
can  come  more  conveniently  now  than  hereafter,  I  would 
advise  you  not  to  let  this  circumstance  prevent  you.    I  shall 

be  glad  to  see  Mr.  with  you.    You  may  spend  a  few 

days  very  pleasantly  here,  even  in  vacation  time,  though  you 
will  scarcely  meet  a  gownsman  in  the  streets. 

1  thought  the  matter  over  about  ,  but  I  do  not  think  I 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


165 


have  any  influence  here.  Being  myself  a  young  man,  I  cannot, 
with  any  chance  of  success,  attempt  to  direct  even  that  interest 
which  I  may  claim  with  others. 

*  *  *  * 

The  university  is  the  worst  place  in  the  world  for  making 
interest.  The  great  mass  of  men  are  themselves  busily  em- 
ployed in  wriggling  themselves  into  places  and  livings ;  and 
there  is,  in  general,  too  much  anxiety  for  No.  1,  to  permit  any 
interference  for  a  neighbour,  No.  2. 

*  *         *  m 


TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

St.  John's,  Aug.,  1806. 

My  dear  Mother, 

I  have  no  hesitation  in  declining  the  free-school,  on  the 
ground  of  its  precluding  the  exercise  of  the  ministerial  duties. 

I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  writing  Mr   ,  to  thank  him  for 

having  thought  of  me,  and  to  recommend  to  his  notice 
Mr.  . 

*  *         *  * 

But  do  not  fret  yourself,  my  dear  mother ;  in  a  few  years  we 
shall,  I  hope,  be  in  happier  circuius canoes.  I  am  not  too 
sanguine  in  my  expectations,  but  I  shall  certainly  be  able  to 
assist  you,  and  my  sisters,  in  a  few  years.  *  *  *  As  for 
Maria  and  Kate,  if  they  succeed  well  in  their  education,  they 
may,  perhaps,  be  able  to  keep  a  school  of  a  superior  kind, 
where  the  profits  will  be  greater,  and  the  labour  less.  I  even 
hope  that  this  may  not  be  necessary,  and  that  you,  my  father, 
and  they,  may  come  and  live  with  me  when  I  get  a  parsonage. 

You  would  be  pleased  to  see  how  comfortably  Mr.  lives 

with  his  mother  and  sisters,  at  a  snug  little  rectory  about  ten 
miles  from  Cambridge.    So  much  for  castle  building. 

*  *         •  * 


166 


LETTERS  OF 


TO  MR.   . 

St.  John's,  Aug.  15,  1800. 

My  good  Friend, 

I  have  deferred  writing  to  you  until  my  return  from 

Mr.  's,  knowing  how  much  you  would  like  to  hear  from 

me  in  respect  to  that  dear  family.  I  am  afraid  your  patience 
has  been  tried  by  tins  delay,  and  I  trust  to  this  circumstance 
alone  as  my  excuse. 

My  hours  have  seldom  flowed  so  agreeably  as  they  did  at 

S  ,  nor  perhaps  have  I  made  many  visits  which  have  been 

more  profitable  to  me  in  a  religious  sense.    The  example  of 

Mr.  will,  I  hope,  stimulate  me  to  a  faithful  preparation 

for  the  sacred  office  to  which  I  am  destined.  I  say  a  faithful 
preparation,  because  I  fear  I  am  apt  to  deceive  myself  with 
respect  to  my  present  pursuits,  and  to  think  I  am  only  labour- 
ing for  the  honour  of  God,  when  I  am  urging  literary  labours 
to  a  degree  inconsistent  with  duty,  and  my  real  interests. 

Mr.  is  a  good  and  careful  pastor ;  my  heart  has  seldom 

been  so  full  as  when  I  have  accompanied  him  to  the  chambers 
of  the  sick,  or  have  heard  his  affectionate  addresses  to  the 
attentive  crowd,  which  fills  his  schoolroom  on  Sunday  evening. 
He  is  so  earnest,  and  yet  so  sober;  so  wise,  and  yet  so  simple! 

You,  my  dear  R  ,  are  now  very  nearly  approaching  to  the 

sacred  office,  and  I  sincerely  pray  that  you  may  be  stimulated 
to  follow  after  the  pattern  of  our  excellent  friend.    You  may 

have  Mr.  's  zeal,  but  you  will  need  his  learning  and  his 

judgment  to  temper  it.  Remember,  that  it  is  a  work  of  much 
more  self-denial,  for  a  man  of  active  habits  to  submit  to  a 
course  of  patient  study,  than  to  suffer  many  privations  for 
Christ's  sake.  In  the  latter  the  heart  is  warmly  interested ; 
the  other  is  the  slow  and  unsatisfactory  labour  of  the  head, 
tedious  in  its  progress,  and  uncertain  in  its  produce.  Yet 
there  is  a  pleasure,  great  and  indescribable  pleasure,  in  sanc- 
tified study :  the  more  wearisome  the  toil,  the  sweeter  will  it  be 
to  those  who  sit  down  with  a  subdued  and  patient  spirit, 
content  to  undergo  much  tedium  and  fatigue,  for  the  honour 
of  God's  ministry.    Reading,  however  dry,  soon  becomes- 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


167 


interesting  if  we  pursue  it  with  a  resolute  spirit  of  investi- 
gation, and  a  determinate  purpose  of  thoroughly  mastering 
what  we  are  about.  You  cannot  take  up  the  most  tiresome 
book,  on  the  most  tiresome  subject,  and  read  it  with  fixed 
attention  for  an  hour,  but  you  feel  a  desire  to  go  on ;  and 
here  I  would  exhort  you,  whatever  you  read,  read  it  accu- 
rately and  thoroughly,  and  never  to  pass  over  anything, 
however  minute,  which  you  do  not  quite  comprehend.  Tins 
is  the  only  way  to  become  really  learned,  and  to  make  your 
studies  satisfactory  and  productive.  If  I  were  capable  of 
directing  your  course  of  reading,  I  should  recommend  you  to 
peruse  Butler's  Analogy,  Warburton's  Divine  Legation, 
Prideaux  and  Shuckford's  Connexions,  and  Milner's  Church 
History,  century  for  century,  along  with  Mosheim's  Eccle- 
siastical History.  The  latter  is  learned,  concise,  clear,  and 
written  in  good  scholastic  Latin.  Study  the  Chronology  of 
the  Old  Testament,  and,  as  a  mean  of  making  it  interesting, 
trace  out  the  completion  of  the  prophecies.  Read  your  Greek 
Testament  with  the  nicest  accuracy,  tracing  every  word  to  its 
root,  and  seeking  out  the  full  force  of  particular  expressions, 
by  reference  both  to  Parkhurst  and  Scapula.  The  derivation 
of  words  will  throw  great  light  on  many  parts  of  the  New 
Testament ;  thus,  if  we  know  that  the  word  diaicovos,  a  deacon, 
comes  from  dia  and  kopig>,  to  bustle  about  in  the  dust,  we  shall 
have  a  fuller  notion  of  the  humility  of  those  who  held  the 
office  in  the  primitive  church.  In  reading  the  Old  Testament, 
wherever  you  find  a  passage  obscure,  turn  to  the  Septuagint, 
which  will  often  clear  up  a  place  better  than  fifty  commen- 
tators. Thus,  in  Joel,  the  day  of  the  Lord  is  called  "  a  day 
of  gloominess j  a  day  of  darkness,  and  of  clouds,  Wee  the 
morning  spread  upon  the  mountains"  which  is  a  contra- 
diction. Looking  at  the  Septuagint,  we  find  that  the  passage 
is  mispointed,  and  that  the  latter  metaphor  is  applied  to  the 
people :  "  A  people  great  and  strong,  like  the  morning  spread 
upon  the  mountains."  The  Septuagint  is  very  easy  Greek, 
quite  as  much  so  as  the  Greek  Testament ;  and  a  little  practice 
of  this  kind  will  help  you  in  your  knowledge  of  the  language, 
and  make  you  a  good  critic.   I  perceive  your  English  style  is 


168 


LETTERS  OF 


very  unpolished,  and  I  think  this  a  matter  of  great  moment. 
I  should  recommend  you  to  read,  and  imitate  as  nearly  as  you 
can,  the  serious  papers  in  the  eighth  volume  of  the  Spectator, 
particularly  those  on  the  Ubiquity  of  the  Deity.  Accustom 
yourself  to  write  down  your  thoughts,  and  to  polish  the  style 
some  time  after  composition,  when  you  have  forgotten  the 
expression.  Aim  at  conciseness,  neatness,  and  clearness; 
never  make  use  of  fine  or  vulgar  words.  Avoid  every  epithet 
which  does  not  add  greatly  to  the  idea,  for  every  addition  of 
this  kind,  if  it  do  not  strengthen,  weakens  the  sentiment ;  and 
be  cautious  never  to  express  by  two  words  what  you  can  do 
as  well  by  one :  a  multiplicity  of  words  only  hides  the  sense, 
just  as  a  superabundance  of  clothes  does  the  shape.  Thus 
much  for  studies. 

4£  4£  4£ 

I  recommend  you  to  pause  and  consider  much  and  well  on 
the  subject  of  matrimony.  You  have  heard  my  sentiments 
with  regard  to  a  rich  wife ;  but  I  am  much  too  young,  and 
too  great  an  enthusiast,  to  be  even  a  tolerable  counsellor  on  a 
point  like  this.  You  must  think  for  yourself,  and  consult  with 
prudent  and  pious  people,  whose  years  have  taught  them  the 
wisdom  of  the  present  world,  and  whose  experience  has 
instructed  them  in  that  of  the  world  to  come.  But  a  little 
sober  thought  is  worth  a  world  of  advice.  You  have,  however, 
an  infallible  adviser,  and  to  his  directions  you  may  safely  look. 
To  him  I  commend  all  your  ways. 

I  have  one  observation  to  make,  which  I  hope  you  will  for- 
give in  me ;  it  is,  that  you  fall  in  love  too  readily.  I  have  no 
noticn  of  a  man's  having  a  certain  species  of  affection  for 
two  women  at  once.  I  am  afraid  you  let  your  admiration 
outrun  your  judgment  in  the  outset,  and  then  comes  the 
denouement  and  its  attendant,  disappointment  and  disgust. 
Take  good  heed  you  do  not  do  this  in  marriage ;  for  if  you  do, 
there  will  be  great  risk  of  your  making  shipwreck  of  your 
hopes.  Be  content  to  learn  a  woman's  good  qualities  as  they 
gradually  reveal  themselves ;  and  do  not  let  your  imagination 
adorn  her  with  virtues  and  charms  to  which  she  has  no  pre- 
tension.  I  think  there  is  often  a  little  disappointment  after 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


1C9 


marriage — our  angels  turn  out  to  be  mere  Eves ; — but  the  true 
way  of  avoiding,  or,  at  least,  lessening  this  inconvenience,  is 
to  estimate  the  object  of  our  affections  really  as  she  is,  without 
deceiving  ourselves,  and  injuring  her,  by  elevating  her  above 
her  sphere.  This  is  the  way  to  be  happy  in  marriage ;  for, 
upon  this  plan,  our  partners  will  be  continually  breaking  in 
upon  us,  and  delighting  us  with  some  new  discovery  of  excel- 
lence ;  while,  upon  the  other  plan,  we  shall  always  be  finding 
that  the  reality  falls  short  of  what  we  had  so  fondly  and  so 
foolishly  imagined. 

Be  very  sedulous  and  very  patient  in  your  studies.  You 
would  shudder  at  the  idea  of  obtruding  yourself  on  the  sacred 
office  in  a  condition  rather  to  disgrace  than  to  adorn  it.  St. 
Paul  is  earnest  in  admonishing  Timothy  to  give  attention  to 
reading :  and  that  holy  apostle  himself  quotes  from  several  ot 
the  best  authors  among  the  Greeks.  His  style  is  also  very 
elegant,  and  polished  on  occasion.  He,  therefore,  did  not 
think  the  graces  of  composition  beneath  his  attention,  as  some 
foolish  and  ignorant  preachers  of  the  present  day  are  apt  to 
do.  I  have  written  a  longer  letter  to  you  than  I  expected, 
and  I  must  now  therefore  say,  good  bye. 

I  am  very  affectionately  yours, 

H.  K.  White. 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 

St.  John's,  Aug.  12th,  1806. 

Dear  Neville, 

I  can  but  just  manage  bo  tell  you,  by  this  post,  what  I 
am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  learn,  even  at  the  expense  of 
sevenpence  for  an  empty  sheet,  that  Mr.  Catton  has  given  me 
an  exhibition,  which  makes  my  whole  income  sixty  guineas 
a  year.  My  last  term's  bill  was  13 1.  13s.,  and  I  had  71.  12s. 
to  receive ;  but  the  expenses  of  this  vacation  will  leave  me 
bare  until  Christmas. 

I  have  the  pleasure  of  not  having  solicited  either  this  or 
any  other  of  the  favours  which  Mr.  Catton  has  so  liberally 
bestowed  upon  me :  and  though  I  have  been  the  possessor  of 


170 


LETTERS  OF 


this  exhibition  ever  since  March  last,  yet  Mr.  Catton  did  not 
hint  it  to  me  nntil  this  morning,  when  he  gave  me  my  bill. 

I  have,  of  course,  signified  to  Mr.  Simeon,  that  I  shall  have 
no  need  whatever  of  the  stipend  which  I  have  hitherto  re- 
ceived through  his  hands.  He  was  extremely  kind  on  the 
occasion,  and  indeed  his  conduct  towards  me  has  ever  been 

fatherly.    It  was  Mr.  who  allowed  me  20Z.  per  annum, 

and  Mr.  Simeon  added  10Z.  He  told  me  that  my  conduct 
gave  him  the  most  heartfelt  joy;  that  I  was  so  generally 
respected,  without  having  made  any  compliances,  as  he  under- 
stood, or  having,  in  any  instance,  concealed  my  principles. 
Indeed  this  is  a  praise  which  I  may  claim,  though  I  never 
conceived  that  it  was  at  all  an  object  of  praise.  I  have  always 
taken  some  pains  to  let  those  around  me  know  my  religious 
sentiments,  as  a  saving  of  trouble,  and  as  a  mark  of  that  inde- 
pendence of  opinion  which,  I  think,  every  one  ought  to  assert : 
and  as  I  have  produced  my  opinions  with  frankness  and 
modesty,  and  supported  them  (it*  attacked)  with  coolness  and 
candour,  I  have  never  found  them  any  impediment  to  my  ac- 
quaintance with  any  person  whose  acquaintance  I  coveted. 


TO  ME.  E.  W.  A. 

St.  John's,  Aug.  18th,  1806. 

Dear  A  , 

I  am  glad  to  hear  of  your  voyages  and  travels  through 
various  regions,  and  various  seas,  both  of  this  island,  and  its 
little  suckling,  the  Isle  of  Wight. 

Many  hair's-breadth  'scapes  and  perilous  adventures  you 
must  needs  have  had,  and  many  a  time,  on  the  extreme  shores 
of  the  south,  must  you  have  looked  up  with  the  eye  of  intelli- 
gent curiosity,  to  see  whether  the  same  moon  shone  there  as 
in  the  pleasant,  but  now  far  distant,  groves  of  Colwick.  And 
now,  my  very  wise  and  travelled  friend,  seeing  that  your  head 
is  yet  upon  your  shoulders,  and  your  neck  in  its  right  natural 
position,  and  seeing  that,  after  all  the  changes  and  chances  of 
a  long  journey,  and  after  being  banged  from  post  to  pillar,  and 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


171 


from  pillar  to  post, — seeing,  I  say,  that,  after  all  this,  you  are 
safely  housed  once  more  under  your  paternal  roof,  what  think 
you,  if  you  were  to  indulge  your  mind  as  much  as  you  have 
done  your  eyes  and  gaping  muscles  ?  A  few  trips  to  the  foun- 
tains of  light  and  colour,  or  to  the  regions  of  the  good  lady 
who  x€pvLV  dddXois  foeVet  a(f>oppov  ttovtov,  a  ramble  down  the 
Galaxy,  and  a  few  peeps  on  the  unconfined  confines  {ttotilov 
airoryLov,  virvov  cwttvov,  fiiov  ov  fiioaTovaK)  of  infinite  space, 
would  prove,  perhaps,  as  delectable  to  your  immaterial  part,  as 
the  delicious  see-saw  of  a  post-chaise  was  to  your  corporeal ; 
or,  if  these  setherial,  aeronautical,  mathematical  volutations 
should  displease  you,  perhaps  it  would  not  be  amiss  to  saunter 
a  few  weeks  on  the  site  of  Troy,  or  to  lay  out  plans  of  ancient 
history  on  the  debateable  ground  of  the  Peloponnesians  and 
Athenians.  There  is  one  Thucydides,  who  lives  near,  who  will 
tell  you  all  about  the  places  you  visit,  and  the  great  events 
connected  with  them :  he  is  a  sententious  old  fellow,  very- 
shrewd  in  his  remarks,  and  speaks,  moreover,  very  excellent 
Greek  at  your  service.  I  know  not  whether  you  have  met 
with  any  guide  in  the  course  of  your  bodily  travels  who  can  be 
compared  to  him.  If  you  should  make  Rome  in  your  way, 
either  there  or  back,  I  should  like  to  give  you  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  an  old  friend  of  mine,  whose  name  is  Livy,  who,  as 
far  as  his  memory  extends,  will  amuse  you  with  pretty  stories, 
and  some  true  history.  There  is  another  honest  fellow  enough, 
to  whom  I  dare  not  recommend  you,  he  is  so  very  crabbed  and 
tart,  and  speaks  so  much  in  epigrams  and  enigmas,  that  I  am 
afraid  he  would  teach  you  to  talk  as  unintelligibly  as  himself. 
I  do  not  mean  to  give  you  any  more  advice,  but  I  have  one 
exJwrtation,  which  I  hope  you  will  take  in  good  part ;  it  i& 
this,  that  if  you  set  out  on  this  journey,  you  would  please  to 
proceed  to  its  end :  for  I  have  been  acquainted  with  some 
young  men,  who  have  turned  their  faces  towards  Athens  or 
Rome,  and  trudged  on  manfully  for  a  few  miles,  but  when  they 
had  travelled  till  they  grew  weary,  and  worn  out  a  good  pair 
of  shoes,  have  suddenly  become  disheartened,  and  returned 
without  any  recompence  for  their  pains. 
And  now  let  me  assume  a  more  serious  strain,  and  exhort 


172 


LETTERS  OF 


you  to  cultivate  your  mind  with  the  utmost  assiduity.  You 
are  at  a  critical  period  of  your  life,  and  the  habits  which  you 
now  form  will,  most  probably,  adhere  to  you  through  life.  If 
they  be  idle  habits,  I  am  sure  they  will. 

But  even  the  cultivation  of  your  mind  is  of  minor  importance 
to  that  of  your  heart,  your  temper,  and  disposition.  Here  I 
have  need,  not  to  preach,  but  to  learn.  You  have  had 
less  to  encounter  in  your  religious  progress  than  I  have,  and 
your  progress  has  been  therefore  greater,  greater  even  than 
your  superior  faculties  would  have  warranted.  I  have  had  to 
fight  hard  with  vanity  at  home,  and  applause  abroad;  no 
wonder  that  my  vessel  has  been  tossed  about,  but  greater 
wonder  that  it  is  yet  upon  the  waves.  I  exhort  you  to  pray 
with  me,  (and  I  entreat  you  to  pray /or  me,)  that  we  may  both 
weather  out  the  storm,  and  arrive  in  the  haven  of  sound  tran- 
quillity, even  on  this  side  the  grave. 

We  have  all  particular  reason  to  watch  and  pray,  lest  self 
too  much  predominate.  We  should  accustom  ourselves  to  hold 
our  own  comforts  and  conveniences  as  subordinate  to  the  com- 
forts and  conveniences  of  others  in  all  things ;  and  a  habit  thus 
begun  in  little  matters,  might  probably  be  extended  without 
difficulty  to  those  of  a  higher  nature. 

*         *         *  * 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.  John's,  14th  Sept.,  1806. 

My  dear  Ben, 

I  can  scarcely  write  more  to  you  now  than  just  to  calm 
your  uneasiness  on  my  account.  I  am  perfectly  well  again, 
and  have  experienced  no  recurrence  of  the  fit ;  my  spirits,  too, 
are  better,  and  I  read  very  moderately.  I  hope  that  God  will 
be  pleased  to  spare  his  rebellious  child ;  this  stroke  has  brought 
me  nearer  to  him  :  whom  indeed  have  I  for  my  comforter,  but 
him  ? 

I  am  still  reading,  but  with  moderation,  as  I  have  been 
during  the  whole  vacation,  whatever  you  may  persist  in 
thinking. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


173 


My  heart  turns  with  more  fondness  towards  the  consolations 
of  religion  than  it  did,  and  in  some  degree  I  have  found  con- 
solation. I  still,  however,  conceive  that  it  is  my  duty  to 
pursue  my  studies  temperately,  and  to  fortify  myself  with 
Christian  resignation  and  calmness  for  the  wors* ;.  I  am  much 
wanting  in  these  virtues,  and,  indeed,  in  all  Christian  virtues, 
but  I  know  how  desirable  they  are,  and  I  long  for  them.  Pray 
that  I  may  be  strengthened  and  enlightened,  and  that  I  may 
be  enabled  to  go  where  duty  bids,  wherever  that  be. 

*         *         *  * 


TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 

St.  John's,  Cambridge,  22nd  Sept.,  1806. 

My  dear  Friend, 

*         *         *  * 

You  charge  me  with  an  accession  of  gallantry  of  late :  1 
plead  guilty.  I  really  began  to  think  of  marriage,  (very  pre- 
maturely, you'll  say) ;  but  if  I  experience  any  repetition  of 
the  fit,  I  shall  drop  the  idea  of  it  for  ever.  It  would  be  folly 
and  cruelty  to  involve  another  in  all  the  horrors  of  such  a 
calamity. 

I  thank  you  for  your  kind  exhortations  to  a  complete  sur- 
render of  my  heart  to  God,  which  are  contained  in  your  letter. 
In  this  respect  I  have  betrayed  the  most  deplorable  weakness 
and  indecision  of  character.  I  know  what  the  truth  is,  and  I 
love  it ;  but  I  still  go  on  giving  myself  half  to  God,  and  half 
to  the  world,  as  if  I  expected  to  enjoy  the  comforts  of  religion 
along  with  the  vanities  of  life.  If,  for  a  short  time,  I  keep  up 
a  closer  communion  with  God,  and  feel  my  whole  bosom  burst- 
ing with  sorrow  and  tenderness  as  I  approach  the  footstool  of 
my  Saviour,  I  soon  relapse  into  indifference,  worldlyminded- 
ness,  and  sin ;  my  devotions  become  listless  and  perfunctory: 
I  dote  on  the  world,  its  toys,  and  its  corruptions,  and  am  mad 
enough  tc  be  willing  to  sacrifice  the  happiness  of  eternity  to 
the  deceitful  pleasures  of  the  passing  moment.  My  heart  is 
indeed  a  lamentable  sink  of  loathsome  corruption  and  hypo- 
crisy.   In  consistency  with  my  professed  opinions,  I  am  often 


174 


LETTERS  OF 


obliged  to  talk  on  subjects  of  which  I  know  but  little  in  expe- 
rience, and  to  rank  myself  with  those  who  have  felt  what  I 
only  approve  from  my  head,  and,  perhaps,  esteem  from  my 
heart.  I  often  start  with  horror  and  disgust  from  myself, 
when  I  consider  how  deeply  I  have  imperceptibly  gone  into 
this  species  of  simulation.  Yet  I  think  my  love  for  the  Gospel, 
and  its  professors,  is  sincere ;  only  I  am  insincere  in  suffering 
persons  to  entertain  an  high  opinion  of  me  as  a  child*of  God, 
when  indeed  I  am  an  alien  from  him.  On  looking  over  some 
private  memorandums  which  were  written  at  various  times  in 
the  course  of  the  two  last  years,  I  beheld,  with  inexpressible 
anguish,  that  my  progress  has,  if  anything,  been  retrograde. 
I  am  still  as  dark,  still  as  cold,  still  as  ignorant,  still  as  fond 
of  the  world,  and  have  still  fewer  desires  after  holiness.  I  am 
very,  very  dissatisfied  with  myself,  and  yet  I  am  not  prompted 
to  earnest  prayer.  I  have  been  so  often  earnest,  and  always 
have  fallen  away,  that  I  go  to  God  without  hope,  without 
faith.  Yet  I  am  not  totally  without  hope ;  I  know  God  will 
have  my  whole  heart,  and  I  know  when  I  give  him  that,  I 
shall  experience  the  light  of  his  countenance  with  a  perma- 
nency. I  pray  that  he  would  assist  my  weakness,  and  grant 
me  some  portion  of  his  grace,  in  order  that  I  may  overcome 
the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  to  which  I  have  long,  very 
long,  been  a  willing,  though  an  unhappy  slave.  Do  you  pray 
earnestly  with  me,  and  for  me,  in  these  respects ;  I  know  the 
prayers  of  the  faithful  avail  much;  and  when  you  consider 
with  what  great  temptations  I  am  surrounded,  and  how  very 
little  strength  I  have  wherewith  to  resist-  them,  you  will  feel 
with  me  the  necessity  of  earnest  supplication,  and  fervent 
intercession,  lest  I  should  be  lost,  and  cast  away  for  ever. 

I  shall  gladly  receive  your  spiritual  advice  and  directions. 
I  have  gone  on  too  long  in  coldness  and  unconcern;  who 
knows  whether,  if  I  neglect  the  present  hour,  the  day  of  salvar 
tion  may  not  be  gone  by  for  ever  ! 

*         *         «  • 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


175 


TO  MB.  JOHN  CHARLES  WORTH, 

St.  John's,  22nd  Sept.,  1800. 

Ml  DEAR,  CilARLESWORTII, 

Thank  you  for  taking  the  blame  of  our  neglected  cor- 
respondence on  your  own  shoulders.  I  thought  it  rested 
elsewhere.  Thrice  have  I  begun  to  write  to  you ;  once  in 
Latin,  and  twice  in  English ;  and  each  time  have  the  fates 
opposed  themselves  to  the  completion  of  my  design.  But, 
however,  pax  sit  rebus,  we  are  naturally  disposed  to  forgive, 
because  we  are,  as  far  as  intention  goes,  mutually  offenders. 

I  thank  you  for  your  invitation  to  Clapham,  which  came  at 
a  fortunate  juncture,  since  I  had  just  settled  with  my  tutor 
that  I  should  pay  a  visit  to  my  brother  in  London  this  week. 
I  shall  of  course  see  you;  and  shall  be  happy  to  spend  a  few 
days  with  you  at  Clapham,  and  to  rhapsodize  on  your  com- 
mon. It  gives  me  pleasure  to  hear  you  are  settled,  and  I  give 
you  many  hearty  good  wishes  for  practice  and  prosperity.  I 
hope  you  will  soon  find  that  a  wife  is  a  very  necessary  article 
of  enjoyment  in  a  domesticated  state ;  for  how  indeed  should 
it  be  otherwise  ?  A  man  cannot  cook  his  dinner  while  he 
is  employed  in  earning  it.  Housekeepers  are  complete  hel- 
luones  rei  familiaris,  and  not  only  pick  your  pockets,  but 
abuse  you  into  the  bargain.  While  a  wife,  on  the  contrary, 
both  cooks  your  dinner  and  enlivens  it  with  her  society; 
receives  you  after  the  toils  of  the  day  with  cheerfulness  and 
smiles,  and  is  not  only  the  faithful  guardian  of  your  treasury, 
but  the  soother  of  your  cares,  and  the  alleviator  of  your 
calamities.  Now,  am  I  not  very  poetical  ?  But  on  such  a 
mbject,  who  would  not  be  poetical?  A  wife! — a  domestic 
fire-side !— the  cheerful  assiduities  of  love  and  tenderness! 
It  would  inspire  a  Dutch  burgomaster !  and  if,  with  all  this 
in  your  grasp,  you  shall  still  choose  the  pulsare  terram  pede 
libero,  still  avoid  the  irrupta  copula,  still  deem  it  a 
matter  of  light  regard  to  be  an  object  of  affection  and 
'ondness  to  an  amiable  and  sensible  woman,  why  then 
tou  deserve  to  be  a  fellow  of  a  college  all  your  days,, 
to  be  kicked  about  in  your  last  illness  by  a  saucy  and 
careless  bod-maker',  and,  lastly,  to  be  put  in  the  ground 


176 


LETTERS  OP 


in  your  college  chapel,  followed  only  by  the  man  who  is  to  be 
your  successor.  Why,  man,  I  dare  no  more  dream  that  1 
shall  ever  have  it  in  my  power  to  have  a  wife,  than  that  1 
shall  be  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  Primate  of  all  England. 
A  suite  of  rooms  in  a  still  and  quiet  corner  of  old  St.  John's, 
which  was  once  occupiod  by  a  crazy  monk,  or  by  one  of  the 
translators  of  the  Bible  in  the  days  of  good  King  James,  must 
form  the  boundary  of  my  ambition.  I  must  be  content  to 
inhabit  walls  which  never  echoed  with  a  female  voice — to  be 
buried  in  glooms  which  were  never  cheered  with  a  female 
smile.  It  is  said,  indeed,  that  women  were  sometimes  per- 
mitted to  visit  St.  John's,  when  it  was  a  monastery  of  White 
Friars,  in  order  to  be  present  at  particular  religious  cere- 
monies ;  but  the  good  monks  were  careful  to  sprinkle  holy 
water  wherever  their  profane  footsteps  had  carried  contagion 
and  pollution. 

It  is  well  that  you  are  free  from  the  restrictions  of  monastic 
austerity,  and  that,  while  I  sleep  under  the  shadow  of  towers 
and  lofty  walls,  and  the  safeguard  of  a  vigilant  porter,  you  are 
permitted  to  inhabit  your  own  cottage,  under  your  own  guar- 
dianship, and  to  listen  to  the  sweet  accents  of  domestic  affection. 

Yes,  my  very  Platonic,  or  rather  Stoical  friend,  I  must 
see  you  safely  bound  in  the  matrimonial  noose,  and  then, 
like  a  confirmed  bachelor,  ten  years  hence,  I  shall  have  the 
satisfaction  of  pretending  to  laugh  at,  while,  in  my  heart,  I 
envy  you.  So  much  for  rhapsody.  I  am  coming  to  London 
for  relaxation's  sake,  and  shall  take  it  pretty  freely ;  that  is, 
I  shall  seek  after  fine  sights — stare  at  fine  people— be  cheerful 
with  the  gay — foolish  with  the  simple — and  leave  as  little 
room  to  suspect  as  possible  that  I  am  (anything  of)  a  philo- 
sopher and  mathematician.  I  shall  probably  talk  a  little  Greek, 
but  it  will  be  by  stealth,  in  order  to  excite  no  suspicion. 
*         *         *  * 

I  shall  be  in  town  on  Friday  or  Saturday.  I  am  in  a  very 
idle  mood,  and  have  written  you  a  very  idle  letter,  for  which 
I  entreat  your  pardon,  and 

I  am,  dear  C  , 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

H.  X.  White. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


177 


TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
(found  in  his  pocket  after  his  decease.) 

St.  John's  College,  Saturday,  Oct.  11,  1806. 

Dear  Neville, 

I  am  safely  arrived,  and  in  college,  but  my  illness  has  in- 
creased upon  me  much.  The  cough  continues,  and  is  attended 
with  a  good  deal  of  fever.  I  am  under  the  care  of  Mr, 
Farish,  and  entertain  very  little  apprehension  about  the  cough ; 
but  my  over  exertions  in  town  have  reduced  me  to  a  state  cf 
much  debility ;  and,  until  the  cough  be  gone,  I  cannot  be  per- 
mitted to  take  any  strengthening  medicines.  This  places  me 
in  an  awkward  predicament ;  but  I  think  I  perceive  a  degree 
of  expectoration  this  morning,  which  will  soon  relieve  me,  and 
then  I  shall  mend  apace. 

Under  these  circumstances,  I  must  not  expect  to  see  you 
here  at  present :  when  I  am  a  little  recovered,  it  will  be  ft 
pleasant  relaxation  to  me. 

*         *         *  * 

Our  lectures  began  on  Friday,  but  I  do  not  attend  them 
until  I  am  better.  I  have  not  written  to  my  mother,  nor  shall 
I  while  I  remain  unwell.  You  will  tell  her,  as  a  reason,  that 
our  lectures  began  on  Friday.  I  know  she  will  be  uneasy  if 
she  do  not  hear  from  me,  and  still  more  so,  if  I  tell  her  I  am  ill. 

I  cannot  write  more  at  present,  than  that  I  am 

Your  truly  affectionate  brother, 

H.  K.  White. 


HINTS,  Etc. 

Why  will  not  men  be  contented  with  appearing  what  they 
are?  As  sure  as  we  attempt  to  pass  for  what  we  are  not, 
we  make  ourselves  ridiculous.  With  religious  professors  this 
ought  to  be  a  consideration  of  importance;  for  when  we 
assume  credit  for  what  we  do  not  possess,  we  break  the  laws 
of  God  in  more  ways  than  we  are  aware  of :  vanity  and  deceit 
are  both  implicated. 

X 


178 


HINTS,  ETC. 


Why  art  thou  so  disquieted,  0  my  soul,  and  why  so  full  of 
heaviness  ?  0  put  thy  trust  in  God ;  for  I  will  yet  thank  him 
which  is  the  help  of  my  countenance,  and  my  God.    Ps.  xlii. 

Domine  Jesu  in  tc  speravi,  miserere  mei !  Ne  speme  ani- 
mum  miserrimi  peccatoris. 

The  love  of  Christ  is  the  only  source  from  whence  a  Chris- 
tian can  hope  to  derive  spiritual  happiness  and  peace.  Now 
the  love  of  Christ  will  not  reside  in  the  bosom  already  pre- 
occupied with  the  love  of  the  world,  or  any  other  predomi- 
nating affection.  "We  must  give  up  everything  for  it,  and  we 
know  it  deserves  that  distinction ;  yet,  upon  this  principle, 
unless  the  energy  of  Divine  grace  were  what  it  is,  mighty  and 
irresistible,  who  would  be  saved  ? 

The  excellence  of  our  liturgy,  and  our  establishment,  is 
more  and  more  impressed  upon  my  mind :  how  admirable  do 
her  confessions,  her  penitentiary  offerings,  her  intercessions, 
her  prayers,  suit  with  the  case  of  the  Christian !  It  is  a  sign 
that  a  man's  heart  is  not  right  with  God,  when  he  finds  fault 
with  the  liturgy. 

Contempt  of  religion  is  distinct  from  unbelief :  unbelief  may 
be  the  result  of  proud  reasonings,  and  independent  research ; 
but  contempt  of  the  Christian  doctrine  must  proceed  from 
profound  ignorance. 


Lord,  give  me  a  heart  to  turn  all  knowledge  to  thy  glory, 
and  not  to  mine  :  keep  me  from  being  deluded  with  the  lights 
of  vain  philosophy ;  keep  me  from  the  pride  of  human  reason : ' 
let  me  not  think  my  own  thoughts,  nor  dream  my  own  imagi- 
nations ;  but  in  all  things  acting  under  the  good  guidance  of 
thy  Holy  Spirit,  may  I  live  in  all  simplicity,  humility,  and 
singleness  of  heart,  unto  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  now  and  for 
evermore.  Amen. 

[The  above  Prayer  was  prefixed  to  a  Manual,  or  Memorandum* 
book.] 


HINTS,  ETC. 


179 


A  Prayer. 

Almighty  Father,  at  the  close  of  another  day  I  kneel  before 
thee  in  supplication,  and  ere  I  compose  my  body  to  sleep,  I 
would  steal  a  few  moments  from  weariness,  to  lift  up  my 
thoughts  to  thy  perfections,  to  meditate  on  thy  wonderful 
dispensations,  and  to  make  my  request  known  unto  thee. 

Although  the  hours  of  this  day  have  not  been  spent  in  the 
busy  haunts  of  society,  but  in  the  pursuit  of  needful  and  godly 
knowledge,  yet  I  am  conscious  that  my  thoughts  and  actions 
have  been  far  from  pure ;  and  many  vain  and  foolish  specu- 
lations, many  sinful  thoughts  and  ambitious  anticipations,  have 
obtruded  themselves  on  my  mind.  I  know  that  I  have  felt 
pleasure  in  what  I  ought  to  have  abhorred,  and  that  I  have 
not  had  thy  presence  continually  in  mind ;  so  that  my  ghostly 
-  enemy  has  mixed  poison  with  my  best  food,  and  sowed  tares 
with  the  good  seed  of  instruction.  Sometimes,  too,  the  world 
has  had  too  much  to  do  with  my  thoughts :  I  have  longed  for 
its  pleasures,  its  splendours,  its  honours,  and  have  forgotten 
that  I  am  a  poor  follower  oj[.  Jesus  Christ,  whose  inheritance  is 
not  in  this  land,  but  in  the  fields  above.  I  do  therefore  sup- 
plicate and  beseech  thee,  oh,  thou  my  God  and  Father !  that 
thou  wilt  not  only  forgive  these  my  wanderings,  but  that  thou 
wilt  chasten  my  heart,  and  establish  my  affections,  so  that 
they  may  not  be  shaken  by  the  light  suggestions  of  the  tempter 
Satan :  and  since  I  am  of  myself  very  weak,  I  implore  thy 
restraining  hand  upon  my  understanding,  that  I  may  not 
reason  in  the  pride  of  worldly  wisdom,  nor  flatter  myself  on 
my  attainments,  but  ever  hold  my  judgment  in  subordination  to 
thy  word,  and  see  myself  as  what  I  am,  an  helpless  dependent 
on  thy  bounty.  If  a  spirit  of  indolence  and  lassitude  have 
at  times  crept  on  me,  I  pray  thy  forgiveness  for  it ;  and  if  I 
have  felt  rather  inclined  to  prosecute  studies  which  procure 
respect  from  the  world,  than  the  humble  knowledge  which 
becomes  a  servant  of  Christ,  do  thou  check  this  growing  pro- 
pensity, and  only  bless  my  studies  so  far  as  they  conduce  to 
thy  glory,  and  as  thy  glory  is  their  chief  end.  My  heart,  O 
Lord !  is  but  too  fond  of  this  vain  and  deceitful  world,  and  I 
have  many  fears  lest  I  should  make  shipwreck  of  my  hope  on 


180 


IIINTS,  ETC. 


the  rocks  of  ambition  and  vanity.  Give  me,  I  pray  thee,  thy 
grace  to  repress  these  propensities :  illumine  more  completely 
my  wandering  mind,  rectify  my  understanding,  and  give  me  a 
simple,  humble,  and  affectionate  heart,  to  love  thee  and  thy 
sheep  with  all  sincerity.  As  I  increase  in  learning,  let  me 
increase  in  lowness  of  spirit ;  and  inasmuch  as  the  habits  of 
studious  life,  unless  tempered  by  preventing  grace,  but  too 
much  tend  to  produce  formality  and  lifelessness  in  devotion, 
do  thou,  0  heavenly  Father,  preserve  me  from  all  cold  and 
speculative  views  of  thy  blessed  Gospel;  and  while  with 
regular  constancy  I  kneel  down  -  daily  before  thee,  do  not  fail 
to  light  up  the  tire  of  heavenly  love  in  my  bosom,  and  to  draw 
my  heart  heavenward  with  earnest  longings  [to  thyself]. 

And  now,  0  Blessed  Redeemer !  my  rock,  my  hope,  and 
only  sure  defence,  to  thee  do  I  cheerfully  commit  both  my 
soul  and  my  body.  If  thy  wise  Providence  see  fit,  grant  that 
I  may  rise  in  the  morning,  refreshed  with  sleep,  and  with  a 
spirit  of  cheerful  activity  for  the  duties  of  the  day :  but 
whether  I  wake  here  or  in  eternity,  grant  that  my  trust  in  thee 
may  remain  sure,  and  my  hope  unshaken.    Our  Father,  &c. 

[This  Prayer  was  discovered  amongst  some  dirty  loose  papers  of 
H.  K.  W.'s.] 


Memorandum. 

September  22,  1806. 

On  running  over  the  pages  of  this  book,  I  am  constrained 
to  observe,  with  sorrow  and  shame,  that  my  progress  in  divine 
light  has  been  little  or  none. 

I  have  made  a  few  conquests  over  my  corrupt  inclinations, 
but  my  heart  still  hankers  after  its  old  delights ;  still  lingers 
half  willing,  half  unwilling,  in  the  ways  of  worldly-mindedness. 

My  knowledge  of  divine  things  is  very  little  improved.  I 
have  read  less  of  the  Scriptures  than  I  did  last  year.  In 
reading  the  Fathers,  I  have  consulted  rather  the  pride  of  mj 
heart,  than  my  spiritual  good. 

I  now  turn  to  the  cause  of  these  evils,  and  I  find  that  the 
great  root,  the  main  spring  is — love  of  the  world;  next  to 
that,  pride ;  next  to  that,  spiritual  sloth. 

[This  Memorandum  was  written  a  very  few  weeks  before  his  death.] 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


SONNET, 

Addressed  to  H.  K,  White,  on  his  Poems  lately  published. 

Henry  !  I  greet  thine  entrance  into  life ! 

Sure  presage  that  the  myrmidons  of  fate, 

The  fool's  unmeaning  laugh,  the  critic's  hate, 

Will  dire  assail  thee ;  and  the  envious  strife 

Of  bookish  schoolmen,  beings  over  rife, 

Whose  pia-mater  studious  is  fill'd 

With  unconnected  matter,  half  distill'd 

From  letter'd  page,  shall  bare  for  thee  the  knife, 

Beneath  whose  edge  the  poet  oft-times  sinks : 

But  fear  not !  for  thy  modest  work  contains 

The  germ  of  worth ;  thy  wild  poetic  strains, 

How  sweet  to  him,  untutor'd  bard,  who  thinks 

Thy  verse  "  has  power  to  please,  as  soft  it  flows 

Through  the  smooth  murmurs  of  the  frequent  close." 

G.  L.  C  ,  1803. 


SONNET, 

To  Henry  Kirke  White,  on  his  Poems  lately  published, 

BY  AKTHUR  OWEN,  ESQ. 

Hail  !  gifted  youth,  whose  passion-breathing  lay 
Portrays  a  mind  attuned  to  noblest  themes, 
A  mind,  which,  wrapt  in  Fancy's  high- wrought  drea;ns, 

To  nature's  veriest  bounds  its  daring  way 


182 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


Can  wing :  what  charms  throughout  thy  pages  shine, 
To  win  with  fairy  thrill  the  melting  soul ! 
Eor  though  along  impassion' d  grandeur  roll, 

Yet  in  full  power  simplicity  is  thine. 

Proceed,  sweet  bard  !  and  the  heav'n-grantel  fi  « 
Of  pity,  glowing  in  thy  feeling  breast, 
May  nought  destroy,  may  nought  thy  soul  divest 

Of  joy — of  rapture  in  the  living  lyre, 

Thou  tunest  so  magically  ;  but  may  fame 
Each  passing  year  add  honours  to  thy  name. 

Richmond,  Sept.,  1803. 


TO  MR.  H.  K.  WHITE. 

Hark  !  'tis  some  sprite  who  sweeps  a  fun'ral  knell 

Eor  Dermody  no  more.    That  fitful  tone 

Erom  Eolus'  wild  harp  alone  can  swell, 
Or  Chatterton  assumes  the  lyre  unknown. 

No  ;  list  again !  'tis  Batcman's  fatal  sigh 

Swells  with  the  breeze,  and  dies  upon  the  stream : 

'Tis  Margaret  mourns,  as  swift  she  rushes  by, 
Roused  by  the  daemons  from  adulterous  dream. 

Oh,  say,  sweet  youth !  what  genius  fires  thy  soul  P 
The  same  winch  tuned  the  frantic  nervous  strain 

To  the  wild  harp  of  Collins  ? — By  the  pole, 
Or  'mid  the  seraphim  and  heav'nly  train, 

Taught  Milton  everlasting  secrets  to  unfold, 

To  sing  Hell's  flaming  gulf,  or  Heav'n  high  arch'd  with 
gold  ? 

H  Welker. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


183 


LINES 

Ofi  the  Death  of  Mr.  Henry  Kirhe  White. 

BY  THE  REV.  J.  PLUMPTRE. 

Such  talents  and  such  piety  combin'd, 
With  such  unfeign'd  humility  of  mind, 
Bespoke  him  fair  to  tread  the  way  to  fame, 
And  live  an  honour  to  the  Christian  name. 
But  Heaven  was  pleased  to  stop  his  fleeting  hour, 
And  blight  the  fragrance  of  the  opening  flow'r. 
We  mourn — but  not  for  him,  removed  from  pain ; 
Our  loss,  we  trust,  is  his  eternal  gain : 
With  him  we'll  strive  to  win  the  Saviour's  love, 
And  hope  to  join  him  with  the  blest  above. 
$4tk  Oct.,  1800. 


SONNET 

CfT  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

X, 

Master  so  early  of  the  various  lyre 

Energic,  pure,  sublime ! — Thus  art  thou  gone  P 
In  its  bright  dawn  of  fame  that  spirit  flown 

Which  breathed  such  sweetness,  tenderness,  and  lire  ! 

W ert  thou  but  shown  to  win  us  to  admire, 

And  veil  in  death  thy  splendour  ? — but  unknown 
Their  destination  who  least  time  have  shone, 

And  brightest  beam'd. — When  these  the  eternal  sire, 

II. 

— liighteous  and  wise,  and  good  are  all  his  ways— 

Eclipses  as  their  sun  begins  to  rise, 
Can  mortal  judge,  for  their  diimnish'd  days, 

What  blest  equivalent  in  changeless  skies, 
What  sacred  glory  waits  them  ? — His  the  praise ; 

'Gracious,  whate'er  he  gives,  whate'er  denies, 

C.  Loeft. 

Uth  Oct.,  1800. 


184 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


LINES 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Henry  Kirke  White,  late  of  St.  John'* 

College,  Cambridge. 

WRITTEN  ABOUT  AND  IN  THAT  COLLEGE. 

Sorrows  are  mine — then  let  me  joys  evade, 
And  seek  for  sympathies  in  this  lone  shade. 
The  glooms  of  death  fall  heavy  on  my  heart, 
And,  between  life  and  me,  a  truce  impart. 
Genius  has  vanish' d  in  its  opening  bloom, 
And  youth  and  beauty  wither  in  the  tomb  ! 

Thought,  ever  prompt  to  lend  th'  inquiring  eye, 
Pursues  thy  spirit  through  futurity. 
Does  thy  aspiring  mind  new  powers  essay, 
Or  in  suspended  being  wait  the  day, 
When  earth  shall  fall  before  the  awful  train 
Of  Heaven  and  Virtue's  everlasting  reign  ? 

May  goodness,  which  thy  heart  did  once  enthrone* 
Emit  one  ray  to  meliorate  my  own  ! 
And  for  thy  sake,  when  time  affliction  calm, 
Science  shall  please,  and  Poesy  shall  charm. 

I  turn  my  steps  whence  issued  all  my  woes, 
Where  the  dull  courts  monastic  glooms  impose ; 
Thence  fled  a  spirit  whose  unbounded  scope 
Surpass'd  the  fond  creations  e'en  of  hope. 

Along  this  path  thy  living  step  has  fled, 
Along  this  path  they  bore  thee  to  the  dead. 
All  that  this  languid  eye  can  now  survey 
Witness' d  the  vigour  of  thy  fleeting  day : 
And  witness' d  all,  as  speaks  this  anguish' d  tear, 
The  solemn  progress  of  thy  early  bier. 

Sacred  the  walls  that  took  thy  parting  breath, 
Own'd  thee  in  life,  encompass' d  thee  in  death ! 

Oh !  I  can  feel  as  felt  the  sorrowing  friend 
Who  o'er  thy  corse  in  agony  did  bend ; 
Dead  as  thyself  to  all  the  world  inspires, 
Paid  the  last  rites  mortality  requires ; 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


185 


Closed  the  dim  eye  that  beam'd  with  mind  before ; 
Composed  the  icy  limbs  to  move  no  more  ! 

Some  power  the  picture  from  my  memory  tear, 
Or  feeling  will  rush  onward  to  despair. 

Immortal  hopes  !  come,  lend  your  blest  relief, 
And  raise  the  soul  bow'd  down  with  mortal  grief; 
Teach  it  to  look  for  comfort  in  the  skies  : 
Earth  cannot  give  what  Heaven's  high  will  denies. 

Cambridge,  Nov.,  1806. 


SONNET 
Occasioned  by  the  Death  of  H,  Kirke  White, 

I. 

Yes,  fled  already  is  thy  vital  fire, 
And  the  fair  promise  of  thy  early  bloom 
Lost,  in  youth's  morn  extinct ;  sunk  in  the  tomb ; 

Mute  in  the  grave  sleeps  thy  enchanted  lyre ! 

And  is  it  vainly  that  our  souls  aspire  ? 
Ealsely  does  the  presaging  heart  presume 
That  we  shall  live  beyond  life's  cares  and  gloom  ; 

Grasps  it  eternity  with  high  desire, 

ii. 

But  to  imagine  bliss,  feel  woe,  and  die ; 

Leaving  survivors  to  worse  pangs  than  death  ? 

Not  such  the  sanction  of  the  Eternal  Mind. 
The  harmonious  order  of  the  starry  sky, 

And  awful  revelation's  angel-breath, 
Assure  these  hopes  their  full  effect  shall  find. 

C.  L. 

25th  Dec,  1806. 


186 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  HOMER  OF  MR.  H.  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Presented  to  me  by  his  Brother,  J".  Neville  White. 

I. 

Baud  of  brief  days,  but  all,  of  deathless  fame  ! 

While  on  these  awful  leaves  my  fond  eyes  rest, 

On  which  thine  late  have  dwelt,  thy  hand  late  prest, 
I  pause ;  and  gaze  regretful  on  thy  name. 
By  neither  chance,  nor  envy,  time,  nor  flame, 

Be  it  from  this  its  mansion  dispossest ! 

But  thee  Eternity  clasps  to  her  breast, 
And  in  celestial  splendour  thrones  thy  claim. 

us 

No  more  with  mortal  pencil  shalt  thou  trace 

An  imitative  radiance  :*  thy  pure  lyre 
Springs  from  our  changeful  atmosphere's  embrace, 

And  beams  and  breathes  in  empyreal  fire  : 
The  Homeric  and  Miltonian  sacred  tone 
Uesponsive  hail  that  lyre  congenial  to  their  own. 

C.  Lofft. 

Bury,  11th  Jan.,  1807. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  H.  K.  WHITE. 

BY  A  LADY. 

If  worth,  if  genius,  to  the  world  are  dear, 
To  Henry's  shade  devote  no  common  tear. 
His  worth  on  no  precarious  tenure  hung, 
From  genuine  piety  his  virtues  sprung : 
If  pure  benevolence,  if  steady  sense, 
Can  to  the  feeling  heart  delight  dispense ;  . 
If  all  the  highest  efforts  of  the  mind, 
Exalted,  noble,  elegant,  refined, 


*  Alluding  to  his  pencilled  sketch  of  a  head  surrounded  with  a 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


Call  for  fond  sympathy's  heartfelt  regret, 
Ye  sons  of  genius,  pay  the  mournful  debt : 
His  friends  can  truly  speak  how  large  his  claim 
And  "Life  was  only  wanting  to  his  fame." 
Art  Thou,  indeed,  dear  youth,  for  ever  fled  ? 
So  quickly  number' d  with  the  silent  dead. 
Too  sure  I  read  it  in  the  downcast  eye, 
Hear  it  in  mourning  Friendship's  stifled  sigh. 
Ah !  could  esteem,  or  admiration,  save 
So  dear  an  object  from  th'  untimely  grave. 
This  transcript  faint  had  not  essay'd  to  tell, 
The  loss  of  one  beloved,  revered  so  well. 
Vainly  I  try,  even  eloquence  were  weak, 
The  silent  sorrow  that  I  feel,  to  speak. 
No  more  my  hours  of  pain  thy  voice  will  cheer, 
And  bind  my  spirit  to  this  lower  sphere  : 
Bend  o'er  my  suffering  frame  with  gentle  sigh, 
And  bid  new  fire  relume  my  languid  eye  : 
No  more  the  pencil's  mimic  art  command, 
And  with  kind  pity  guide  my  trembling  hand ; 
Nor  dwell  upon  the  page  in  fond  regard, 
To  trace  the  meaning  of  the  Tuscan  bard. 
Vain  all  the  pleasures  Thou  canst  not  inspire, 
And  "in  my  breast  th'  imperfect  joys  expire." 
I  fondly  hoped  thy  hand  might  grace  my  shrine, 
And  little  dream' d  I  should  have  wept  o'er  thine : 
In  Fancy's  eye  methought  I  saw  thy  lyre 
With  virtue's  energies  each  bosom  fire ; 
I  saw  admiring  nations  press  around, 
Eager  to  catch  the  animating  sound : 
And  when,  at  length,  sunk  in  the  shades  of  night* 
To  brighter  worlds  thy  spirit  wing'd  its  flight, 
Thy  country  hail'd  thy  venerated  shade, 
And  each  graced  honour  to  thy  memory  paid. 
Such  was  the  fate  hope  pictured  to  my  view — 
But  who,  alas  !  e'er  found  hope's  visions  true  ? 
And,  ah !  a  dark  presage,  when  last  we  met, 
Sadden'd  the  social  hour  with  deep  regret ; 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


When  Thou  thy  portrait  from  the  minstrel  drew. 

The  living  Edwin  starting-  on  my  view — 

Silent,  I  ask'd  of  heaven  a  lengthen' d  date ; 

His  genius  thine,  but  not  like  thine  his  fate. 

Shuddering  I  gazed,  and  saw  too  sure  reveal' d, 

The  fatal  truth,  by  hope  till  then  conceal'd. 

Too  strong  the  portion  of  celestial  flame 

Tor  its  weak  tenement,  the  fragile  frame ; 

Too  soon  for  Us  it  sought  its  native  sky, 

And  soar'd  impervious  to  the  mortal  eye ; 

Like  some  clear  planet,  shadow'd  from  our  sight, 

Leaving  behind  long  tracks  of  lucid  light : 

So  shall  thy  bright  example  fire  each  youth 

With  love  of  virtue,  piety,  and  truth. 

Long  o'er  thy  loss  shall  grateful  Granta  mourn, 

And  bid  her  sons  revere  thy  favour' d  urn. 

When  thy  loved  flower  "  Spring's  victory  makes  know 

The  primrose  pale  shall  bloom  for  thee  alone : 

Around  thy  urn  the  rosemary  well  spread, 

Whose  "tender  fragrance" — emblem  of  the  dead — 

Shall  "teach  the  maid,  whose  bloom  no  longer  lives," 

That  "virtue  every  perish'd  grace  survives." 

Farewell !  sweet  Moralist ;  heart-sick'ning  grief 

Tells  me  in  duty's  paths  to  seek  relief, 

With  surer  aim  on  faith's  strong  pinions  rise, 

And  seek  hope's  vanish' d  anchor  in  the  skies. 

Yet  still  on  thee  shall  fond  remembrance  dwel', 

And  to  the  world  thy  worth  delight  to  tell ; 

Though  well  I  feel  unworthy  Thee  the  lays 

That  to  thy  memory  weeping  Friendship  pays. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


189 


STANZAS, 

^apposed  to  have  been  written  at  the  Grave  of  H.  K.  White, 

BY  A  LADY. 
I. 

Ye  gentlest  gales  !  oh,  hither  waft, 

On  airy  undulating  sweeps, 
Your  frequent  sighs,  so  passing  soft, 

Where  he,  the  youthful  Poet,  sleeps 
He  breathed  the  purest,  tenderest  sigh, 
The  sigh  of  sensibility. 

ii. 

And  thou  shait  lie,  his  fav'rite  flower, 
Pale  Primrose,  on  his  grave  reclined . 

Sweet  emblem  of  his  fleeting  hour, 
And  of  his  pure,  his  spotless  mind ! 

Like  thee,  he  sprung  in  lowly  vale; 

And  felt,  like  thee,  the  trying  gale. 

in. 

Nor  hence  thy  pensive  eye  seclude, 

0  thou,  the  fragrant  Rosemary, 
Where  he,  "  in  marble  solitude, 

So  peaceful,  and  so  deep,"  doth  lie  I 
His  harp  prophetic  sung  to  thee 
In  notes  of  sweetest  minstrelsy. 

IV. 

Ye  falling  dews,  oh !  ever  leave 

Your  crystal  drops  these  flow'rs  to  steep  * 

At  earliest  morn,  at  latest  eve, 
Oh,  let  them  for  their  Poet  weep ! 

For  tears  bedew' d  his  gentle  eye, 

The  tears  of  heavenly  sympathy. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES* 


Thou  western  Sun,  effuse  thy  beams  j 
Tor  he  was  wont  to  pace  the  gladea 

To  watch  in  pale  uncertain  gleams, 
The  crimson-zoned  horizon  fade — 

Thy  last,  thy  settling  radiance  pour, 

Where  he  is  set  to  rise  no  more. 


ODE 

ON  THE  LATE  HENItY  KIIIKE  WHITS» 

And  is  the  minstrel's  voyage  o'er  ? 

And  is  the  star  of  genius  fled  ? 
And  will  his  magic  harp  no  more, 

Mute  in  the  mansions  of  the  dead, 
Its  strains  seraphic  pour  ? 

A  pilgrim  in  this  world  of  woe, 
Condemn'd,  alas !  awhile  to  stray, 

"Where  bristly  thorns,  where  briers  grow* 
lie  bade,  to  cheer  the  gloomy  way, 

Its  heavenly  music  flow. 

And  oft  he  bade,  by  fame  inspired, 
Its  wild  notes  seek  th'  ethereal  plain, 

Till  angels,  by  its  music  fired, 

Have,  Kst'ning,  caught  th'  ecstatic  strai% 

Have  wonder' d,  and  admired. 

But  now  secure  on  happier  shores, 
With  choirs  of  sainted  soids  he  sings ; 

His  harp  th'  Omnipotent  adores, 
And  from  its  sweet,  its  silver  strings 

Celestial  music  pours. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


And  though  on  earth  no  more  he'll  weave 
The  lay  that's  fraught  with  magic  fire, 

Yet  oft  shall  fancy  hear  at  eve 
His  now  exalted,  heavenly  lyre 

In  sounds  iEolian  grieve. 

JUVENIS. 

B.  Stoke. 


VERSES 

Occasioned  by  the  Death  of  Henry  Kirhe  White* 

What  is  this  world  at  best, 
Though  deck'd  in  vernal  bloom, 
By  hope  and  youthful  fancy  clrest, 
"What  bul,  a  ceaseless  toil  for  rest, 
A  passage  to  the  tomb  ? 
If  flow'rets  strew 
The  avenue, 
Though  fair,  alas  !  how  fading,  and  how  few  ! 

And  every  hour  comes  arm'd 
By  sorrow,  or  by  woe  : 
Concealed  beneath  its  little  wings, 
A  scythe  the  soft-shod  pilf'rer  brings, 
To  lay  some  comfort  low : 
Some  tie  t'  unbind, 
By  love  entwined, 
Some  silken  bond  that  holds  the  captive  miii<L 

And  every  month  displays 
The  ravages  of  time : 
Faded  the  flowers ! — The  Spring  is  past 
The  scatter' d  leaves,  the  wintry  blast, 
Warn  to  a  milder  ciime  : 
The  songsters  flee 
The  leafless  tree, 
And  bear  to  happier  realms  their  melody. 


192 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


Henry !  the  world  no  more 
Can  claim  thee  for  her  own ! 
In  pnrer  skies  thy  radiance  beams  ! 
Thy  lyre  employ'd  on  nobler  themes 
Before  th'  eternal  throne : 
Yet,  spirit  dear, 
Eorgive  the  tear 
Which  those  must  shed  who  're  doom'd  to  linger  here. 

Although  a  stranger,  I 
In  friendship's  train  would  weep : 
Lost  to  the  world,  alas !  so  young, 
And  must  thy  lyre,  in  silence  hung, 
On  the  dark  cypress  sleep  ? 
The  poet,  all 
Their  friend  may  call ; 
And  Nature's  self  attends  his  funeral. 

Although  with  feeble  wing 
Thy  flight  I  would  pursue, 
With  quicken' d  zeal,  with  humbled  pride. 
Alike  our  object,  hopes,  and  guide, 
One  heaven  alike  in  view ; 
True,  it  was  thine 
To  tower,  to  shine :  . 
But  I  may  make  thy  milder  virtues  mine. 

If  Jesus  own  my  name 
(Though  fame  pronounced  it  never,) 
Sweet  spirit,  not  with  thee  alone, 
But  all  whose  absence  here  I  moan, 
Circling  with  harps  the  golden  throne, 
I  shall  unite  for  ever  : 
At  death  then  why 
Tremble  or  sigh  ? 
Oh,  who  would  wish  to  live,  but  he  who  fears  to  die ! 

Josiah  Con  DEB. 

Dec.  5th.  1807. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


193 


SONNFT, 

On  seeing  another  written  to  Henry  Kir/re  White,  in  September, 
1803,  inserted  in  his  "Remains  by  Robert  Southey." 

BY  ARTHUR  OWEN. 

Ah  !  once  again  the  long-left  wires  an  ong, 
Truants  the  Muse  to  weave  her  requi  m  ong; 
With  sterner  lore  now  busied,  erst  the  lay 
Cheer' d  my  dark  morn  of  manhood,  wont  to  stray 
O'er  fancy's  fields  in  quest  of  musky  flower ; 

To  me  nor  fragrant  less,  though  barr'd  from  view 
And  courtship  of  the  world:  hail'd  was  the  hour 

That  gave  me,  dripping  fresh  with  nature's  dew, 
Poor  Henry's  budding  beauties — to  a  clime 

Hapless  transplanted,  whose  exotic  ray 

Torced  their  young  vigour  into  transient  day, 
And  drain'd  the  stalk  that  rear'd  them  !  and  shall  time 
Trample  these  orphan  blossoms  ? — No !  they  breathe 
Still  lovelier  charms — for  Southey  culls  the  wreath ! 

Oxford,  Dec  17th,  1807. 


SONNRT, 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MR.  H.  K.  WHITE. 

u  'Txs  now  the  dead  of  night,"  and  I  will  go 
To  where  the  brook  soft-murmuring  glides  along 

In  the  still  wood ;  yet  does  the  plaintive  song 
Of  Philomela  through  the  welkin  flow; 
And  while  pale  Cynthia  carelessly  doth  throw 

Her  dewy  beams  the  verdant  boughs  among, 

Will  sit  beneath  some  spreading  oak  tree  strong, 
And  intermingle  with  the  streams  my  woe : 
Hush'd  in  deep  silence  every  gentle  breeze; 

No  mortal  breath  disturbs  the  awful  gloom; 
0 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


Cold,  chilling  clew-drops  trickle  down  the  trees, 
And  every  flower  withholds  its  rich  perfume : 
*Tis  sorrow  leads  me  to  that  sacred  ground 
Where  Henry  moulders  in  a  sleep  profound ! 

J.  G. 


REFLECTIONS, 
On  reading  the  Life  of  the  late  Henry  Kirke  While. 

BY  WILLIAM  HOLLOWAY,  AUTHOB  OF  "THE  PEASANT'S  FATE.* 

Darling  of  science  and  the  Muse, 
How  shall  a  son  of  song  refuse 

To  shed  a  tear  for  thee  ? 
To  us  so  soon,  for  ever  lost, 
What  hopes,  what  prospects  have  been  cross'd 

By  Heaven's  supreme  decree  ? 

How  could  a  parent,  love-beguiled, 
In  life's  fair  prime  resign  a  child 

So  duteous,  good,  and  kind  ? 
The  warblers  of  the  soothing  strain 
Must  string  the  elegiac  lyre  in  vain 

To  soothe  the  wounded  mind ! 

Yet  Fancy,  hov'ring  round  the  tomb, 
Half  envies,  while  she  mourns,  thy  doom, 

Dear  poet,  saint  and  sage  ! 
Who  into  one  short  span,  at  best, 
The  wisdom  of  an  age  comprest, 

A  patriarch's  lengthen' d  age ! 

To  him  a  genius  sanctified, 
And  purged  from  literary  pride, 

A  sacred  boon  was  given  : 
Chaste  as  the  psalmist's  harp,  his  lyre 
Celestial  raptures  could  inspire, 

And  lift  the  soul  to  Heaven. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


19o 


Twas  not  the  laurel  earth  bestows, 
'Twas  not  the  praise  from  man  that  flows, 

With  classic  toil  he  sought : 
He  sought  the  crown  that  martyrs  wear, 
When  rescued  from  a  world  of  care ; 

Their  spirit,  too,  he  caught. 

Here  come,  ye  thoughtless,  vain,  and  gay, 
Who  idly  range  in  Folly's  way, 

And  learn  the  worth  of  time : 
Learn  ye,  whose  days  have  run  to  waste, 
How  to  redeem  this  pearl  at  last, 

Atoning  for  your  crime. 

This  flower,  that  droop'd  in  one  cold  clime, 
Transplanted  from  the  soil  of  time 

To  immortality, 
In  full  perfection  there  shall  bloom : 
And  those  who  now  lament  his  doom 

Must  bow  to  God's  decree. 

London,  27th  Feb.,  18C8. 


ON  READING  THE  POEM  ON  SOLITUDE, 
In  the  second  Volume  of  H.  K.  White's  "Remains.™ 

But  art  thou  thus  indeed  Cf  alone  ?" 
Quite  unbefriended — all  unknown  ? 
And  hast  thou  then  His  name  forgot 
Who  form'd  thy  frame,  and  fix'd  thy  lot  ? 

Is  not  his  voice  in  evening's  gale  ? 
Beams  not  with  him  the  "  star"  so  pale  ? 
Is  there  a  leaf  can  fade  and  die, 
Unnoticed  by  his  watchful  eye  ? 

o  2 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


Each  fluttering  hope — each  anxious  fear- 
Each  lonely  sigli — each  silent  tear — 
To  thine  Almighty  Friend  are  known; 
And  say'st  I  hou,  thou  art  "  all  alone  ?" 

JOSIAH  CoNDEXL 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  H.  K.  WHITE. 

BY  THB  IlEV.  W.  B.  COLLYER,  D.D. 

0,  lost  too  soon  !  accept  the  tear 
A  stranger  to  thy  memory  pays! 
Dear  to  the  muse,  to  science  dear! 
In  the  young  morning  of  thy  days ! 

All  the  wild  notes  that  pity  loved 
Awoke,  responsive  still  to  thee, 
While  o'er  the  lyre  thy  fingers  roved 
In  softest,  sweetest  harmony. 

The  chords  that  in  the  human  heart, 
Compassion  touches  as  her  own, 
Bore  in  thy  symphonies  a  part— 
With  them  in  perfect  unison. 

Amidst  accumulated  woes, 
That  premature  afflictions  bring, 
Submission's  sacred  hymn  arose, 
Warbled  from  every  mournful  string. 

When  o'er  thy  dawn  the  darkness  spread, 
And  deeper  every  moment  grew ; 
When  rudely  round  thy  youtliful  head 
The  chilling  blasts  of  sickness  blew; 

Religion  heard  no  'plainings  loud, 
The  sigh  in  secret  stole  from  thee ; 
And  Pity,  from  the  "  dropping  cloud," 
Shed  tears  of  holy  symoathy. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


197 


Cold  is  that  heart  in  which  were  met 
More  virtues  than  could  ever  die ; 
The  morning-star  of  hope  is  set — 
The  sun  adorns  another  sky. 

O  partial  grief !  to  mourn  the  day 
So  suddenly  o'erclouded  here, 
To  rise  with  unextinguished  ray — 
To  shine  in  a  superior  sphere! 

Oft  genius  early  quits  this  sod, 
Impatient  of  a  robe  of  clay, 
Spreads  the  light  pinion,  spurns  the  clod, 
And  smiles,  and  soars,  and  steals  away  ! 

But  more  than  genius  urged  thy  fight, 
And  mark'd  the  way,  dear  youth  !  for  thee: 
Henry  sprang  up  to  worlds  of  light, 
On  wings  of  immortality  ! 

Blackheath-hill,  2-itU  June,  1808. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HENRY  K1JIKE  WHITE, 

BY  THOMA8  PARK,  ESQ.,  F.A.S. 

Too,  too  prophetic  did  thy  wild  note  swell, 

Impassion'd  minstrel !  when  its  pitying  wail 
Sigh'd  o'er  the  vernal  primrose  as  it  fell 

Untimely,  wither' d  by  the  northern  gale.* 
Thou  wert  that  flower  of  promise  and  of  prime ; 

Whose  opening  bloom,  'mid  many  an  adverse  blast, 
Charm'd  the  lone  wanderer  through  this  desert  clime, 

But  charm'd  him  with  a  rapture  soon  o'ercast, 
To  see  thee  languish  into  quick  decay. 

Yet  was  not  thy  departing  immature ! 

*  See  "  Clifton  Grove,"  p.  16,  ed.  1803. 


W8I 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


For  ripe  in  virtue  thou  wert  reft  away, 

And  pure  in  spirit,  as  the  blest  are  pure ; 
Pure  as  the  dew-drop,  freed  from  earthly  leaven, 
That  sparkles,  is  exhaled,  and  blends  with  heaven  !* 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HENRY  KJRKE  WHITE, 

BY  A  LADY. 

While  in  full  choir  the  solemn  requiem  swells, 
And  bids  the  tranced  thought  sublimely  soar, 
While  Sorrow's  breath  inspires  responsive  shells, 
One  strain  of  simple  grief  my  reed  would  pour : 
No  splendid  offering 
Of  lofty  praise  I  bring ; 
Yet,  sainted  spirit !  own  the  pensive  tear 
Shed  in  sad  tribute  on  thine  early  bier. 

Soft  as  the  airs  that  fan  the  waking  spring, 
And  on  the  margin  of  some  melting  rill, 
In  music  wild  their  sounds  iEolian  fling, 

When  the  pale  North  regains  his  empire  chih, 
And  all  his  fury  dies, 
Thy  touching  minstrelsies 
With  magic  sweetness  on  thy  spring  arose, 
Then  faintly  murmuring,  sunk  to  deep  repose. 

For  thee  his  glowing  torch  did  Genius  fire ! 

Who  now  its  meteor  brightness  shall  recall  ? 

Too  soon  he  bore  it  to  thy  funeral, 
And  bid  in  drowning  tears  its  flame  expire. 
For  thee  did  Taney  weave  a  chaplet  wild, 

•  Young,  I  think,  says  of  Narcissa,  "she  sparkled,  was  exhaled, 
and  went  to  Heaven." 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


199 


And  from  her  woodland  bower, 
With  many  a  forest  flower 
Enwreathe  the  brows  of  her  mnch-favonred  child  ! 
Still  they  preserve  a  lasting  bloom, 
But,  ah !  they  blossom  on  thy  tomb ! 

Hush'd  is  the  melting  cadence  of  the  lyre 
That  once  could  sweetest  melodies  impart ; 
Its  soften' d  echoes  vibrate  on  the  heart, 
But  dews  of  death  have  quench' d  the  poet's  fire. 
Sure — 'twas  a  phoenix  flame ; 
Kindled  from  heaven  it  came, 
And  with  its  native  spark  so  closely  blended, 
That  soon  to  heaven  impell'd,  it  re-ascended. 

As  wandering  o'er  the  waste  of  desert  lands, 

Some  wearied  pilgrim  seeks  a  holy  shrine, 
And  speeds  him  o'er  the  blaze  of  torrid  sands, 

His  soul  with  purest  ardour  to  refine ; 
So  to  thy  sacred  turf  would  I  repair, 

And  while  on  Eame's  recording  page  I  see, 
Thy  polish'd  graces,  and  thy  virtues  fair, 

Thy  wisdom  mild  or  heaven-taught  piety, 
The  vestige  of  thy  worth  would  share, 
And  thence  some  precious  relic  bear. 

What,  though  no  longer  beaming  here  below, 
Thy  radiant  star  of  life  has  ceased  to  burn, 
Still  shall  its  fire  on  Fancy's  vision  glow, 

And  Memory  shed  her  moonbeam  on  thine  urn. 
Though  early  vanish' d  hence,  an  angel  band 

Marked  its  swift  progress  o'er  this  realm  of  night, 
Watch'd  the  last  lustre  of  its  parting  light, 
And  hailed  its  rising  on  a  fairer  land. 
Above  the  flaming  zone  of  day 
Sparkling  with  exhaustless  ray, 
Fixed,  shall  it  shine  with  living  glory  bright 
When  Time's  last  midnight  long  has  rolled  away. 


200 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


LINES 

Written  on  visiting  the  Rooms  once  inhabited  by  JTenry  Kirk* 
While,  in  St.  Johns  College,  Cambridge. 

BY  MRS.  M.  H .  HAY. 

How  awful !  how  impressive  is  the  gloom, 

How  sacral  is  the  silence  that  prevails 
'Mid  these  lone  walls,  where  Henry  met  his  doom ! 

My  heart  is  full,  my  recollection  fails; 
Earth,  and  all  earthly  things,  fade  from  my  sight : 

My  friends,  so  loved  around  me,  disappear; 
I  almost  see  a  dawn  of  heavenly  light, 

And  Henry's  angel  voice  1  seem  to  hear, 
Saying,  "  Poor  Sister,  dry  the  mortal  tear, 

Nor  let  thy  bosom  swell  with  grief  for  me ; 
Learn  first  the  bleeding  cross  on  earth  to  bear, 

And  then  the  bliss,  now  mine,  shall  gladden  thee. 
'Mid  scenes  celestial  e'en  my  soul  can  glow, 

And  heavenly  harmony  can  with  me  sing, 
To  think  these  poor  4  Remains'  I  left  below, 

Shall  kindred  spirits  to  my  pleasures  bring. 
But,  oh  !  could  1  send  down  the  faintest  gleam, 

To  wipe  the  earthy  vapours  from  thine  eyes, 
All  human  wisdom  would  appear  a  dream, 

And  inspiration  lead  thee  to  the  skies." 


A  INFLECTION, 
On  the  early  Death  of  Henry  Kirke  White* 

BY  A  LADY. 

Tiie  pensive  snowdrop  lifts  her  modest  head, 
"While  yet  stern  winter  binds  the  icy  stream. 

On  chilling  snow  her  taper  leaves  are  spread, 
Uncheer'd  by  balmy  dew  and  summer's  beam. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


201 


Sweet  flower !  not  long  thy  spotless  heart  will  fear 
The  cruel  blast  that  bows  thy  slender  form : 

Thou  wert  not  made  for  winter's  frown  severe ; 
Soon  wilt  thou  droop,  unconscious  of  the  storm. 

Thus  genius  springs,  and  thus  the  storms  of  earth 
Nip  the  young  bud,  just  opening  to  the  day : 

Awhile  it  blooms,  to  ptove  its  heavenly  birth, 
Awhile  it  charms,  then  withers, — dies  away. 

Thus  Henry  graced  the  world — Too  soon  the  power 
Of  stern  affliction  seized  his  youthful  breast ; 

He  saw  the  clouds  arise,  the  tempest  lower, 
He  bowed  his  head,  and  meekly  sunk  to  rest. 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED. 

Unhappy  White !  *  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 
And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
The  spoiler  came  ;  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
Has  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  for  ever  there. 
Oh !  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 
When  Science'  self  destroyed  her  favourite  son ! 
Yes !  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit : 
She  sowed  the  seeds,  but  Death  has  reaped  the  fruit. 
'Twas  thine  own  Genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
And  helped  to  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low : 

*  Henry  Kirke  White  died  at  Cambridge,  in  October,  1806,  in 
consequence  of  too  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of  studies  that 
would  have  matured  a  mind  which  disease  and  poverty  could  not 
impair,  and  which  death  itself  destroyed  rather  than  subdued.  His 
poems  abound  in  such  beauties  as  must  impress  the  reader  with  the 
liveliest  regret,  that  so  short  a  period  was  a'lotted  to  talents  which 
would  have  dignified  even  the  sacred  functions  he  was  destined  to 
assume. 


202 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


So  the  struck  eagle,  stretch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart, 
And  wing'd  the  shaft  that  quivered  in  his  heart : 
Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel 
He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impell'd  the  steel, 
While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warm'd  his  nest 
Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast. 


MONODY 
To  the  Memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White, 

BY  JOSEPH  BLACKETT.* 


"  No  marble  marks  thy  couch  of  lowly  sleep, 
But  living  statues  there  are  seen  to  weep; 
Affliction's  semblance  bends  not  o'er  thy  tomb, 
Affliction's  self  deplores  tby  youthful  doom!" 

  Lord  Byrox 


To  yon  streamlet's  rippling  flow, 
Through  the  grove  mcand'ring  slow, 
Heart-heaving  sighs  of  sorrow  let  me  pour, 
And  those  "  living  statues"  join, 
Por  no  "  marble"  grief  is  mine, 
Mine  is  sympathy's  true  tear, 
Love  and  pity's  sigh  sincere, 
And  to  "  Affliction's  self"  I  give  the  mournful  hour  ! 

What  means  yon  new-raised  mould  beneath  the  yew  ? 
And  why  scoop'd  out  the  coffin's  narrow  cell, 
Pashion'd,  alas !  to  human  shape  and  size  ? 
Why  crawls  that  earthworm  from  the  dazzling  ray 
Of  day's  unwelcome  orb  ?   And  why,  at  length, 

*  Vide  his  Poems,  recently  published. 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


203 


Lingering,  advances,  with  grief -measured  pace, 
The  sable  hearse,  in  raven  plumes  array' d  ? 
And,  hark !  oh,  hark !  the  deep-toned  funeral  kiieli 
Breathes,  audible,  a  sad  and  sullen  sound ! 

Alas,  poor  youth  !  for  thee  this  robe  of  death ! 
Ye  Nine,  that  lave  in  the  Castalian  spring, 
Whose  full-toned  waves,  responsive  to  the  strain 
Of  your  Parnassian  harps,  with  solemn  flow, 
Peal  the  deep  dirge  around, — pluck  each  a  wreath 
Of  baneful  yew,  and  twine  it  round  your  lyres, 
Por  your  own  Henry  sleeps  to  wake  no  more ! 

Alas !  alas !  immortal  youth ! 
Thine  the  richly  varied  song, 
Simple,  clear,  sublime,  and  strong ; 

Thy  sunny  eye  beam'd  on  the  page  of  Truth, 
Thy  God  adored,  and,  fraught  with  cherub  fire, 
'Twas  thine  to  strike,  on  earth,  a  heavenly  lyre ! 

Ah  !  lost  too  soon !  through  tangled  groves, 
'Midst  the  fresh  dews  no  more 

He  pensive  roves 

The  varied  Passions  to  explore. 

Silent,  silent,  is  his  tongue, 

Whose  notes  so  powerful  through  the  woodlands  rung, 

When  on  the  wing  of  hoary  Time,* 

With  energy  sublime, 
He  soar'd,  and  left  this  lessening  world  below : — 
Hark !  hark !  methinks,  e'en  now,  I  hear  his  numbers  flow 
 Ah !  no,  lie  sings  no  more.  

Oh !  thou  greedy  cormorant  fell, 
Death  !  insatiate  monster !  tell, 
Why  so  soon  was  sped  the  dart 
Which  pierced,  alas !  his  youthful  heart  f 

•  One  of  Kirke  White's  most  animated  and  beautiful  Poems, 
entitled  "  Time.'' 


204 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES, 


Oh,  despoiler !  tyrant !  know, 

When  thy  arm,  that  dealt  the  blow, 

Wither' d  sinks,  inactive,  cold, 

By  a  stronger  arm  controil'd, 
Then  shall  this  youth  the  sung  cf  triumph  raise, 
Throughout  eternity  immeasurable  days ! 

Bard  of  nature,  heaven-graced  chad! 

Sweet,  majestic,  plaintive,  wild; 

Who,  on  rapid  pinion  borne, 

Swifter  than  the  breeze  of  morn, 

Circled  now  the  Aonian  mount, 

Now  the  Heliconian  fount, 
Teach  me  to  string  thy  harp,  and  wake  its  strain 
To  mourn  thy  early  fate,  till  every  chord  complain ! 

No !  let  thy  harp  remain, 
On  yon  dark  cypress  hung, 
By  death  unstrung; 

To  touch  it  were  profane  ! 

But,  now,  oh !  now,  at  this  deep  hour, 

While  I  feel  thy  thrilling  power ; 

While  I  steal  from  pillow'd  sleep, 

O'er  thy  urn  to  bend  and  weep  ; 

Spirit,  robed  in  crystal  light, 

On  the  fleecy  clouds  of  night, 

Descend  ;  and,  oh  !  my  breast  inspire, 

With  a  portion  of  thy  fire  ; 

Teach  my  hand,  at  midnight's  noon, 
Hover  o'er  me  while  I  sing, 
Oh !  spirit  loved  and  bless'd,  attune  the  string ! 

Yes,  now,  when  all  around  are  sunk  in  rest; 
And  the  night-vapour  sails  along  the  west ; 
When  darkness,  brooding  o'er  this  nether  ball, 
Encircles  nature  with  her  sable  pall ; 
Still  let  me  tarry,  heedless  of  repose, 
To  pour  the  bosom's — not  the  Muse's,  woes! 
To  thy  loved  mem'ry  heave  the  sigh  sincere, 
And  drop  a  kindred, — a  prophetic,  tear  ! 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


205 


Fast  flow,  ye  genial  drops — 

Gush  forth,  ye  tender  sighs  ! 

And  who,  dear  shade !  can  tell — but— 
While  thus  I,  mournful,  pause  and  weep  for  Thee, 
Shortly  a  sigh  may  heave, — a  tear  he  shed,  for  me  I 


ON  VISITING  THE  TOMB  OF  H.  K,  WHITE. 

BY  MRS.  M.  H.  HAY. 

On !  spirit  of  the  blest,  forgive 
The  mortal  tear — the  mortal  sigli 

Thou  knowest  what  it  was  to  live 
And  feel  each  human  agony. 

I  would  not  raise  thy  mould'ring  form, 
"Nor  bring  thy  spirit  from  above, 

Could  I  a  miracle  perform, 
Much  as  thy  beauteous  soul  I  love. 

No,  all  I  ask  in  fervent  prayer, 
As  o'er  thy  silent  tomb  1  bend, 

That  I,  in  heavenly  scenes  may  share 
Thy  converse,  and  become  thy  friend. 


LINES 

Written  on  reading  the  c<  Remains  of  Henry  Kirke  White,  of  NoU 
tingham,  late  of  St.  John*",  College,  Cambridge;  with  an  Account 
of  his  Life,  by  Robert  Soathey,  Esq" 

BY  MRS.  M.  HAY. 

Thy  gentle  spirit  now  is  fled, 
Thy  body  in  its  earthy  bed 

Is  laid  in  peaceful  sleep ; 
A  spirit  good  and  pure  as  thine, 
Best  in  immortal  scenes  can  shine, 

Though  friends  are  left  to  weep. 


♦ 


206 


TRIBUTARY  VERSES. 


When  in  this  dreary  dark  abode, 
Bewildered  in  life's  mazy  road, 

The  weary  trav'ller  sighs ; 
A  rising  star  sometimes  appears, 
Illumes  the  path,  his  bosom  cheers, 

And  lights  him  to  the  skies. 

Oh,  had  thy  valued  life  been  spared, 
Hadst  thou  the  vineyard's  labour  shared 

What  glowing  fruits  of  love 
Thou  mightst  have  added  to  the  stores 
Purchased  by  Him  thy  soul  adores, 

Now  in  the  realms  above. 

Ah !  loss  severe  !  reflect,  ye  great, 
Ye  rich,  ye  powerful,  on  the  fate 

Of  merit's  early  doom ; 
Those  dazzling  gems  ye  so  much  priz?, 
Perhaps  in  dread  array  may  rise 

In  judgment  from  the  tomb. 

A  ?>ingle  gem  of  useless  show, 
Might  everlasting  lustre  throw 

Upon  the  eternal  mind ; 
Did  gentle  offices  employ 
Those  hours  which  fashion's  ways  destroy, 

Those  hours  for  good  design'd. 

Peruse  the  letters  of  a  youth, 

Whose  pen  was  dipt  in  heavenly  truth, 

His  virtuous  struggles  tract ; 
Then  will  thy  melting  bosom  bleed, 
And  quicken  there  the  precious  seed 

Of  self -renewing  grace. 

Then  will  be  clearly  understood, 
"  The  luxury  of  doing  good :" 

And  0  !  haw  happy  they 
Whose  means  are  great,  and  hearts  are  large. 
Who  best  the  sacred  trust  discharge 

To  Him  who  will  repay, 


POEMS, 

WRITTEN   BEFORE   THE   PUBLICATION  OP 

CLIFTON  GROVE. 


CHILDHOOD : 

A  POEM. 

This  is  one  of  Henry's  earliest  productions,  and  appears,  by  the 
handwriting,  to  have  been  written  when  he  was  between  fourteen 
and  fifteen.    The  picture  of  the  schoolmistress  is  from  nature. 

Paiit  I. 

Pictures  in  memory's  mellowing  glass,  how  sweet 
Our  infant  days,  our  infant  joys  to  greet ; 
To  roam  in  fancy  in  each  cherish' d  scene, 
The  village  churchyard,  and  the  village  green. 
The  woodland  walk  remote,  the  greenwood  glade, 
The  mossy  seat  beneath  the  hawthorn's  shade, 
The  whitewash' d  cottage,  where  the  woodbine  grew, 
And  all  the  favourite  haunts  our  childhood  knew ! 
How  sweet,  while  all  the  evil  shuns  the  gaze, 
To  view  the  unclouded  skies  of  former  days ! 

Beloved  age  of  innocence  and  smiles, 
When  each  wing'd  hour  some  new  delight  beguiles, 
When  the  gay  heart,  to  life's  sweet  day-spring  true, 
Still  finds  some  insect  pleasure  to  pursue. 


208 


POEMS  OF 


Blest  Childhood,  hail !— Thee  simply  will  I  sing, 
And  from  myself  the  artless  picture  bring ; 
These  long- lost  scenes  to  me  the  past  restore, 
Each  humble  friend,  each  pleasure,  now  no  more, 
And  ev'ry  stump  familiar  to  my  signt, 
Recalls  some  fond  idea  of  delight. 

This  shrubby  knoll  was  once  my  favourite  seat ; 

Here  did  1  love  at  evening  to  retreat, 

And  muse  alone,  till  in  the  vault  of  night, 

Hesper,  aspiring,  show'd  his  golden  light. 

'Here  once  again,  remote  from  human  noise, 

I  sit  me  down  to  think  of  former  joys ; 

Pause  on  each  scene,  each  treasured  scene,  once  more, 

And  once  again  each  infant  walk  explore, 

While  as  each  grove  and  lawn  I  recognise, 

My  melted  soul  suffuses  in  my  eyes. 

And  oh  !  thou  Power,  whose  myriad  trains  resort 
To  distant  scenes,  and  picture  them  to  thought  : 
Whose  mirror,  held  unto  the  mourner's  eye, 
Flings  to  his  soul  a  borrow'd  gleam  of  joy ; 
Blest  Memory,  guide,  with  finger  nicely  true, 
Back  to  my  youth  my  retrospective  view ; 
Recall  with  faithful  vigour  to  my  mind 
Each  face  familiar,  each  relation  kind ; 
And  all  the  finer  traits  of  them  afford, 
Whose  general  outline  in  my  heart  is  stored. 

In  yonder  cot,  along  whose  mouldering  walls, 
In  many  a  fold,  the  mantling  woodbine  falls, 
The  village  matron  kept  her  little  school, 
Gentle  of  heart,  yet  knowing  well  to  rule ; 
Staid  was  the  dame,  and  modest  was  her  mien; 
Her  garb  was  coarse,  yet  whole,  and  nicely  clean  t 
Her  nea^ly-border'd  cap,  as  lily  fair, 
Beneath  her  chin  was  pinn'd  with  decent  care ; 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


209 


And  pendant  ruffles,  of  the  whitest  lawii, 

Of  ancient  make,  her  elbows  did  adorn. 

Faint  with  old  age,  and  dim  were  grown  her  eyes, 

A  pair  of  spectacles  their  want  supplies ; 

These  does  she  guard  secure,  in  leathern  case, 

From  thoughtless  wights,  in  some  unweeted  place. 

Here  first  I  enter'd,  though  with  toil  and  pain, 

The  low  vestibule  of  learning's  fane : 

Enter'd  with  pain,  yet  soon  I  found  the  way, 

Though  sometimes  toilsome,  many  a  sweet  display. 

Much  did  1  grieve,  on  that  ill-fated  morn, 

When  I  was  first  to  school  reluctant  borne ; 

Severe  I  thought  the  dame,  though  oft  she  try'd 

To  soothe  my  swelling  spirits  when  I  sigh'd ; 

And  oft,  when  harshly  she  reproved,  I  wept, 

To  my  lone  corner  brokenhearted  crept, 

And  thought  of  tender  homey  where  anger  never  kept* 

But  soon  inured  to  alphabetic  toils, 
Aiert  I  met  the  dame  with  jocund  smiles ; 
First  at  the  form,  my  task  for  ever  true, 
A  little  favourite  rapidly  I  grew : 
And  oft  she  stroked  my  head  with  fond  delight, 
Held  me  a  pattern  to  the  dunce's  sight ; 
And  as  she  gave  my  diligence  its  praise, 
Talk'd  of  the  honours  of  my  future  days. 

Oh,  had  the  venerable  matron  thought 

Of  all  the  ills  by  talent  oiten  brought; 

Could  she  have  seeu  me  when  revolving  years 

Had  brought  me  deeper  in  the  vale  of  tears, 

Then  had  she  wept,  and  wish'd  my  wayward  fate 

Had  been  a  lowlier,  an  unletter'd  state ; 

Wish'd  that,  remote  from  worldly  woes  and  strife, 

Unknown,  unheard,  I  might  have  pass'd  through  life* 

Where  in  trie  busy  scene,  by  peace  unblest, 
Shall  the  poor  wanderer  mid  a  place  of  rest  P 
P 


210 


POEMS  OP 


A  lonely  mariner  on  the  stormy  main, 

Without  a  hope,  the  calms  of  peace  to  gain ; 

Long  toss'd  by  tempests  o'er  the  world's  wide  shoie, 

When  shall  his  spirit  rest,  to  toil  no  more  ? 

Not  till  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  shall  lave 

The  sandy  surface  of  his  unwept  grave. 

Childhood,  to  thee  I  turn,  from  life's  alarms, 

Serenest  season  of  perpetual  calms, — 

Turn  with  delight,  and  bid  the  passions  cease, 

And  joy  to  think  with  thee  I  tasted  peace. 

Sweet  reign  of  innocence,  when  no  crime  defiles, 

But  each  new  object  brings  attendant  smiles  ; 

When  future  cviis  never  haunt  the  sight, 

But  all  is  pregnant  with  unmixt  delight ; 

To  thee  I  turn,  from  riot  and  from  noise, — 

Turn  to  partake  of  more  congenial  joys. 

'Neath  yonder  elm,  that  stands  upon  the  moor, 
When  the  clock  spoke  the  hour  of  labour  o'er, 
What  clamorous  throngs,  what  happy  groupes  were  seen, 
In  various  postures  scatt'ring  o'er  the  green  ! 
Some  shoot  the  marble,  others  join  the  chace 
Of  self-made  stag,  or  run  the  emulous  race ; 
While  others,  seated  on  the  dappled  grass, 
With  doleful  tales  the  light-wing'd  minutes  pass. 
Well  I  remember  how,  with  gesture  starch'd, 
A  band  of  soldiers,  oft  with  pride  we  march' d ; 
Tor  banners,  to  a  tall  ash  we  did  bind 
Our  handkercliiefs,  napping  to  the  whistling  wind ; 
And  for  our  warlike  arms  we  sought  the  mead, 
And  guns  and  spears  we  made  of  brittle  reed ; 
Then,  in  uncouth  array,  our  feats  to  crown, 
We  storm' d  some  ruin'd  pig-sty  for  a  town. 

Pleased  with  our  gay  disports,  the  dame  was  wont 
To  set  her  wheel  before  the  cottage  front, 
And  o'er  her  spectacles  would  often  peer, 
To  view  our  gambols,  and  our  boyish  gear. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


Still  as  she  look'd,  her  wheel  kept  turning  round, 
With  its  beloved  monotony  of  sound. 
When  tired  with  play,  we'd  set  us  by  her  side, 
(For  out  of  school  she  never  knew  to  chide) — 
And  wonder  at  her  skill — well  known  to  fame — 
For  who  could  match  in  spinning  with  the  dame  ? 
Her  sheets,  her  linen,  which  she  show'd  with  pride1 
To  strangers,  still  her  thriftness  testified ; 
Though  we  poor  wights  did  wonder  much,  in  troth, 
How  'twas  her  spinning  manufactured  cloth. 

Oft  would  we  leave,  though  well  beloved,  our  play, 
To  chat  at  home  the  vacant  hour  away. 
Many's  the  time  Fve  scampered  down  the  glade, 
To  ask  the  promised  ditty  from  the  maid, 
Which  well  she  loved,  as  well  she  knew  to  sing, 
While  we  around  her  formed  a  little  ring : 
She  told  of  innocence,  foredoom' d  to  bleed, 
Of  wicked  guardians  bent  on  bloody  deed, 
Or  little  children  murder'd  as  they  slept ; 
While  at  each  pause  we  wrung  our  hands  and  wept. 
Sad  was  such  tale,  and  wonder  much  did  we, 
Such  hearts  of  stone  there  in  the  world  could  be. 
Poor  simple  wights,  ah  !  little  did  we  ween 
The  ills  that  wait  on  man  in  life's  sad  scene  ! 
Ail,  little  thought  that  we  ourselves  should  know, 
This  world's  a  world  of  weeping  and  of  woe ! 

Beloved  moment !  then  'twas  first  I  caught 
The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought. 
Then  first  I  shed  bold  Fancy's  thrilling  tear, 
Then  first  that  poesy  charm'd  mine  infant  ear. 
Soon  stored  with  much  of  legendary  lore, 
The  sports  of  childhood  chaim'd  my  soul  no  more, 
Far  from  the  scene  of  gaiety  and  noise, 
Far,  far  from  turbulent  and  empty  joys, 
I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'erarching  shade, 
And  there,  on  mossy  carpet  listless  laid, 
p  lJ 


POEMS  OP 


While  at  my  (cet  the  rippling  runnel  ran, 
The  days  of  wild  romance  antique  I'd  scan ; 
Soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy  through  the  air, 
To  realms  of  light,  and  pierce  the  radiance  there, 
•         *         •  • 


Part  II. 

There  are,  who  think  that  Childhood  does  not  share 
With  age  the  cup,  the  bitter  cup  of  care ; 
Alas !  the  know  not  this  unhappy  truth, 
That  every  age,  and  rank,  is  born  to  ruth. 

From  t 1  e  first  dawn  of  reason  in  the  mind, 
Man  is  foredoom'd  the  thorns  of  grief  to  find ; 
At  every  step  has  further  cause  to  know, 
The  draught  of  pleasure  still  is  dash'd  with  woe. 

Yet  in  the  youthful  breast,  for  ever  caught 
With  some  new  obiect  for  romantic  thought, 
The  impression  of  the  moment  quickly  flies, 
And  with  the  morrow  every  sorrow  dies. 

How  different  manhood  ! — then  does  thought's  control 

Sink  every  pang  still  deeper  in  the  soul ; 

Then  keen  Affliction's  sad  unceasing  smart, 

Becomes  a  painful  resident  in  the  heart ; 

And  Care,  whom  not  the  gayest  can  outbrave, 

Pursues  its  feeble  victim  to  the  grave. 

Then,  as  each  long-known  friend  is  summon'd  hence, 

We  feel  a  void  no  joy  can  recompence, 

And  as  we  weep  o'er  every  new-made  tomb, 

Wish  that  ourselves  the  next  may  meet  our  doom. 

Yes,  Childhood,  thee  no  rankling  woes  pursue, 
No  forms  of  future  ill  salute  thy  view, 
No  pangs  repentant  bid  thee  wake  to  weep, 
But  Halcyon  peace  protects  thy  downy  sleep, 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


213 


And  sanguine  Hope  through  every  storm  of  life, 
Shoots  her  bright  beams,  and  calms  the  internal  strife. 
Yet  e'en  round  childhood's  heart,  a  thoughtless  shrine, 
Affection's  little  thread  will  ever  twine  ; 
And  though  but  frail  may  seem  each  tender  tie; 
The  soul  f?«*egoes  them  but  with  many  a  sigh. 
Thus,  when  the  long-expected  moment  came, 
When  forced  to  leave  the  gentle-hearted  dame, 
Reluctant  throbbings  rose  w>thin  my  breast, 
And  a  still  tear  my  silent  grief  express'd. 

When  to  the  public  school  compell'd  to  go, 
What  novel  scenes  did  on  my  senses  liow  I 
There  in  each  breast  each  active  power  dilates, 
Which  'broils  whole  nations,  and  convulses  slates ; 
There  reigns  by  turns  alternate,  love  and  hate, 
Ambition  burns,  and  factious  rebels  prate ; 
And  in  a  smaller  range,  a  smaller  sphere, 
The  dark  deformities  of  man  appear. 
Yet  there  the  gentler  virtues  kindred  claim, 
There  Friendship  lights  her  pure  untainted  flame, 
There  mild  Benevolence  delights  to  dwell, 
And  sweet  Contentment  rests  without  her  cell; 
And  t  here,  'mid  many  a  stormy  soul,  we  find 
The  good  of  heart,  the  intelligent  of  mind. 

'Twas  there,  oh  George !  with  thee  I  learn'd  to  join 
In  Friendship's  bands— in  amity  divine. 
Oh,  mournful  thought ! — Where  is  thy  spirit  now  ? 
As  here  I  sit  on  fav'rite  Logar's  brow, 
And  trace  below  each  well-remember' d  glade, 
Where,  arm  in  arm,  erewhile  with  thee  I  stray'd. 
Where  art  thou  laid — on  what  untrodden  shore, 
Where  nought  is  heard  save  ocean's  sullen  roar  ? 
Dost  thou  in  lowly,  unlamented  state, 
At  last  repose  from  all  the  storms  of  fate  P 
Methinks  1  see  thee  struggling  with  the  wave, 
Without  one  aiding  hand  stretch'd  out  to  save ; 


214 


P0E3IS  OP 


See  thee  convulsed,  thy  looks  to  Heaven  bend, 
And  send  thy  parting  sigh  unto  thy  friend. 
Or  where  immeasurable  wilds  dismay, 
Forlorn  and  sad  thou  bend'st  thy  weary  way, 
"While  sorrow  and  disease,  with  anguish  rife, 
Consume  apace  the  ebbing  springs  of  life. 
Again  I  see  his  door  against  thee  shut, 
The  unfeeling  native  turn  thee  from  his  hut : 
I  see  thee  spent  with  toil,  and  worn  with  grief, 
Sit  on  the  grass,  and  wish  the  long'd  relief; 
Then  lie  thee  down,  the  stormy  struggle  o'er, 
Think  on  thy  native  land — and  rise  no  more ! 

Oh  that  thou  coulclst,  from  thine  august  abode, 
Survey  thy  friend  in  life's  dismaying  road, 
That  thou  couldst  see  him  at  this  moment  here, 
Embalm  thy  memory  with  a  pious  tear, 
And  hover  o'er  him  as  he  gazes  round, 
Where  all  the  scenes  of  infant  joys  surround. 

Yes  !  yes !  his  spirit's  near ! — The  whispering  breeze 
Conveys  his  voice  sad  sighing  on  the  trees  : 
And  lo  !  his  form  transparent  I  perceive, 
Borne  on  the  grey  mist  of  the  sullen  eve  : 
He  hovers  near,  clad  in  the  night's  dim  robe, 
"While  deathly  silence  reig^-i  upon  the  globe. 

Tot  ah !  whence  comes  this  visionary  rcene  ? 
"lis  fancy's  wild  aerial  dream  I  ween ; 
By  her  inspired,  when  reason  takes  its  flight, 
"What  fond  illusions  beam  upon  the  sight ! 
She  waves  her  hand,  and  lo  !  what  forms  appear ! 
"What  magic  sounds  salute  the  wondering  ear  ! 
Once  more  o'er  distant  regions  do  we  tread, 
And  the  cold  grave  yields  up  its  cherish'd  dead; 
"While  present  sorrows  banish' d  far  away, 
Unclouded  azure  gilds  the  placid  day, 


Childhood.    Part  II  — P.  215. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


Or  in  the  future's  cloud-encircled  face, 
Fair  scenes  of  bliss  to  come  we  fondly  trace, 
And  draw  minutely  every  little  wile, 
Which  shall  the  feathery  hours  of  time  beguile. 

So  when  forlorn,  and  lonesome  at  her  gate, 

The  Royal  Mary  solitary  sate, 

And  view'd  the  moonbeam  trembling  on  the  wave, 

And  heard  the  hollow  surge  her  prison  lave, 

Towards  France's  distant  coast  she  bent  her  sight, 

For  there  her  soul  had  wing'd  its  longing  flight ; 

There  did  she  form  full  many  a  scheme  of  joy, 

Visions  of  bliss  unclouded  with  alloy, 

Which  bright  through  hope's  deceitful  optics  beam'd, 

And  all  became  the  surety  which  it  seem'd ; 

She  wept,  yet  felt,  while  all  within  was  calm, 

In  every  tear  a  melancholy  charm. 

To  yonder  hill,  whose  sides,  deform' d  and  steep, 
Just  yield  a  scanty  sust'nance  to  the  sheep, 
With  thee,  my  friend,  I  oftentimes  have  sped, 
To  see  the  sun  rise  from  his  healthy  bed ; 
To  watch  the  aspect  of  the  summer  morn, 
Smiling  upon  the  golden  fields  of  corn, 
And  taste,  delighted,  of  superior  joys, 
Beheld  through  sympathy's  enchanted  eyes : 
With  silent  admiration  oft  we  view'd 
The  myriad  hues  o'er  heaven's  blue  concave  strew'd 
The  fleecy  clouds,  of  every  tint  and  shade, 
Hound  which  the  silvery  sunbeam  glancing  play'd, 
And  the  round  orb  itself,  in  azure  throne, 
Just  peeping  o'er  the  blue  hill's  ridgy  zone : 
We  mark'd,  delighted,  how  with  aspect  gay, 
Reviving  nature  hail'd  returning  day ; 
Mark'd  how  the  flowrets  rear'd  their  drooping  heacts, 
And  the  wild  lambkins  bounded  o'er  the  meads, 
While  from  each  tree,  in  tones  of  sweet  delight, 
The  birds  sung  pceans  to  the  source  of  light : 


216 


POEMS  OP 


Oft  have  we  watch' d  the  speckled  lark  arise, 
Leave  his  grass  bed,  and  soar  to  kindred  skies, 
And  rise,  and  rise,  till  the  pain'd  sight  no  more 
Could  trace  him  in  his  high  aerial  tour ; 
Though  on  the  ear,  at  intervals,  his  song 
Came  wafted  slow  the  wavy  breeze  along ; 
And  we  have  thought  how  happy  were  our  lot, 
Bless'd  with  some  sweet,  some  solitary  cot, 
Where,  from  the  peep  of  day,  till  russet  eve 
Began  in  every  dell  her  forms  to  weave, 
We  might  pursue  our  sports  from  day  to  day, 
And  in  each  other's  arms  wear  life  away. 

At  sultry  noon,  too,  when  our  toils  were  done, 
We  to  the  gloomy  glen  were  wont  to  run ; 
There  on  the  turf  we  lay,  while  at>  our  feet 
The  cooling  rivulet  rippled  softly  sweet ; 
And  mused  on  holy  theme,  and  ancient  lore, 
Of  deeds,  and  days,  and  heroes  now  no  more ; 
Heard,  as  his  solemn  harp  Isaiah  swept, 
Sung  woe  unto  the  wicked  land — and  wept ; 
Or,  fancy  led,  saw  Jeremiah  mourn 
In  solemn  sorrow  o'er  Judea's  urn. 
Then  to  another  shore  perhaps  would  rove, 
With  Plato  talk  in  his  Ilyssian  grove ; 
Or,  wand'ring  where  the  Thespian  palace  rose, 
Weep  once  again  j'er  fair  Jocasta's  woes. 

Sweet  then  to  us  was  that  romantic  band, 
The  ancient  legends  of  our  native  land — 
Chivalric  Britomart,  and  Una  fair, 
And  courteous  Constance,  doom'd  to  dark  despair, 
By  turns  our  thoughts  engaged ;  and  oft  we  talk'd 
Of  times  when  monarch  Superstition  stalk'd, 
And  when  the  blood-fraught  galliots  of  Rome 
Brought  the  grand  Druid  fabric  to  its  doom ; 
While  where  the  wood-hung  Menai's  waters  flow, 
The  hoary  harpers  pour'd  the  strain  of  woe. 


HENR/  K^IIKE  WHITE. 


217 


While  thus  employ'd,  to  us  how  sad  the  bell 
Which  summon'd  us  to  school!    'Twas  Fancy's  knell, 
And  sadly  sounding  on  the  sullen  ear, 
It  spoke  of  study  pale,  and  chilling  fear. 
Yet  even  then,  (for  oh,  what  chains  can  bind, 
Wrliat  powers  control,  the  energies  of  mind?) 
E'en  there  we  soar'd  to  many  a  height  sublime, 
And  many  a  day-dream  charm'd  the  lazy  time. 

At  evening  too,  liow  pleasing  was  our  walk, 

Endear'd  by  Friendship's  unrestrained  talk, 

When  to  the  upland  heights  we  bent  our  way, 

To  view  the  last  beam  of  departing  day ; 

How  calm  was  all  around  !  no  playful  breeze 

Sigh'd  'mid  the  wavy  foliage  of  the  trees, 

But  all  was  still,  save  when,  with  drowsy  song, 

The  grey-fly  wound  his  sullen  horn  along; 

And  save  when,  heard  in  soft,  yet  merry  glee, 

The  distant  church- bells'  mellow  harmony; 

The  silver  mirror  of  the  lucid  brook, 

That  'mid  the  tufted  broom  its  still  course  took; 

The  rugged  arch,  that  clasp'd  its  silent  tides, 

With  moss  and  rank  weeds  hanging  down  its  sides : 

The  craggy  rock,  that  jutted  on  the  sight ; 

The  shrieking  bat,  that  took  its  heavy  flight ; 

All,  all  was  pregnant  with  divine  delight. 

We  loved  to  watch  the  swallow  swimming  higl% 

In  the  bright  azure  of  the  vaulted  sky ; 

Or  gaze  upon  the  clouds,  whose  colour'd  pride 

Was  scatter'd  thinly  o'er  the  welkin  wide, 

And  tinged  with  such  variety  of  shade, 

To  the  charm'd  soul  sublimest  thoughts  convey'd. 

In  these  what  forms  romantic  did  we  trace, 

While  fancy  led  us  o'er  the  realms  of  space ! 

Now  we  espied  the  thunderer  in  his  car, 

Leading  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war, 

Then  stately  towers  descried,  sublimely  high, 

In  Gothic  grandeur  frowning  on  the  sky— 


POEMS  OF 


Or  saw,  wide  stretching  o'er  the  azure  height, 

A  ridge  of  glaciers  in  mural  white, 

Hugely  terrific. — But  those  times  are  o'er, 

And  the  fond  scene  can  rharm  mine  eyes  no  more; 

For  thon  art  gone,  and  1  am  left  below, 

Alone  to  struggle  through  this  world  of  woe. 

The  scene  is  o'er — still  seasons  onward  roll, 

And  each  revolve  conducts  me  towards  the  goal ; 

Yet  all  is  blank,  without  one  soft  relief, 

One  endless  continuity  of  grief ; 

And  the  tired  soul,  now  led  to  thoughts  sublime, 

Looks  but  for  rest  beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 

Toil  on,  toil  on,  ye  busy  crowds,  that  pant 

For  hoards  of  wealth  which  ye  will  never  want ; 

And,  lost  to  all  but  gain,  with  ease  resign 

The  calms  of  peace  and  happiness  divine ! 

Far  other  cares  be  mine. — Men  little  crave, 

In  this  short  journey  to  the  silent  grave ; 

And  the  poor  peasant,  bless'd  with  peace  and  health, 

I  envy  more  than  Croesus  with  his  wealth. 

Yet  grieve  not  I,  that  fate  did  not  decree 

Paternal  acres  to  await  on  me ; 

She  gave  me  more,  she  placed  within  my  breast 

A  heart  with  little  pleased — with  little  blest : 

I  look  around  me,  where,  on  every  side, 

Extensive  manors  spread  in  wealthy  pride ; 

And  could  my  sight  be  borne  to  either  zone, 

I  should  not  find  one  foot  of  land  my  own. 

But  whither  do  I  wander  ?  shall  the  Muse, 
For  golden  baits,  her  simple  theme  refuse ; 
Oh  no !  but  while  the  weary  spirit  greets 
The  fading  scenes  of  Childhood's  far-gone  sweets, 
It  catches  all  the  infant's  wandering  tongue, 
And  prattles  on  in  desultory  song. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


That  song  must  close — the  gloomy  mists  of  night 
Obscure  the  pale  stars'  visionary  light, 
And  ebon  darkness,  clad  in  vapoury  wet, 
Steals  on  the  welkin  in  primeval  jet. 

The  song  must  close. — Once  more  my  adverse  lot 
Leads  me  reluctant  from  this  cherish' d  spot 
Again  compels  to  plunge  in  busy  life, 
And  brave  the  hateful  turbulence  of  strife. 

Scenes  of  my  youth — ere  my  unwilling  feet 
Are  turn'd  for  ever  from  this  loved  retreat, 
Ere  on  these  fields,  with  plenty  cover' d  o'er, 
My  eyes  are  closed  to  ope  on  them  no  more, 
Let  me  ejaculate  to  feeling  due, 
One  long,  one  last,  affectionate  adieu. 
Grant  that,  if  ever  Providence  should  please 
To  give  me  an  old  age  of  peace  and  ease, 
Grant  that  in  these  sequester'd  shades  my  days 
May  wear  away  in  gradual  decays : 
And  oh,  ye  spirits,  who  unbodied  play, 
Unseen  upon  the  pinions  of  t  he  day. 
Kind  genii  of  my  native  fields  benign, 
Who  were     *     *     *  * 


220 


POEMS  OP 


FRAGMENT 

OF 

AN  ECCENTRIC  DRAMA. 

WRITTEN  AT  A  VERY  EARLY  AGE. 

In  a  little  volume  which  the  author  had  copied  out,  apparently  for 
the  press,  before  the  publication  of  "  Clifton  Grove,"  the  song 
with  which  this  fragment  commences  was  inserted,  under  the 
title  of  "The  Dance  of  the  Consumptives,  in  imitation  of 
Shakspeare,  taken  from  an  Eccentric  Drama,  written  by  H. 
K.  W.  when  very  young."  The  rest  was  discovered  among  his 
loose  papers,  in  the  first  rude  draught,  having,  to  all  appearance, 
never  been  transcribed.  The  song  was  extracted  when  he  was 
sixteen,  and  must  have  been  written  at  least  a  year  before — pro- 
bably mor*,  by  the  handwriting.  There  is  something  strikingly 
wild  and  original  in  the  fragment. 

THE  DA.NCE  OF  THE  CONSUMPTIVES. 
I. 

Ding-dong!  ding-dong! 
Merry,  merry,  go  the  bells, 

Ding-dong !  ding-dong ! 
Over  the  heath,  over  the  moor,  and  over  the  dale, 

"  Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar/' 
Dance,  dance  away,  tne  lucuna  roundelay ! 
Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  calls  us  away. 

II. 

Round  the  oak,  and  round  the  elm, 

Merrily  foot  it  o'er  the  ground ! 
The  sentry  ghost  it  stands  aloof, 

So  merrily,  merrily,  foot  it  round. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


221 


Ding-dong!  ding-dong 
Merry,  merry,  go  the  bells, 
Swelling  in  the  nightly  gale. 
The  sentry  ghost, 
It  keeps  its  post, 
And  soon,  and  soon,  our  sports  must  fail : 
But  let  us  trip  the  nightly  ground, 
While  the  merry,  merry,  bells  ring  round. 

HI. 

Hark !  hark  !  the  death-watch  ticks ! 
See,  see,  the  winding-sheet ! 

Our  dance  is  done, 

Our  race  is  run, 
And  we  must  lie  at  the  alder's  feet 

Ding-dong,  ding-dong, 

Merry,  merry,  go  the  bells, 
Swinging  o'er  the  weltering  wave ! 

And  we  must  seek 

Our  deathbeds  bleak, 
Where  the  green  sod  grows  upon  the  grave. 


vanish — The  Goddess  of  Consumption  descends,  habited  in 
a  sky-blue  Robe — Attended  by  mournful  Music) 

Come,  Melancholy,  sister  mine ! 

Cold  the  dews,  and  chill  the  night : 
Come  from  thy  dreary  shrine  ! 
The  wan  moon  climbs  the  heavenly  height, 
And  underneath  her  sickly  ray, 
Troops  of  squalid  spectres  play, 
And  the  dying  mortal's  groan 
Startles  the  night  on  her  dusky  throne. 
Come,  come,  sister  mine ! 
Gliding  on  the  pale  moonshine : 
We'll  ride  at  ease, 
On  the  tainted  breeze, 
And  oh !  our  sport  will  be  divine. 


222 


POEMS  OP 


{The  Goddess  of  Melancholy  advances  out  of  a  deep  Glen  in  the  rear 
iiabited  in  Black,  and  covered  with  a  thick  Veilr^She  speaks,) 

Sister,  from  my  dark  abode, 
Where  nests  the  raven,  sits  the  toad, 
Hither  I  come,  at  thy  command ; 
Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand ! 
I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee, 
Thon  shalt  fnrnish  food  for  me. 
Come,  let  us  speed  our  way 
Where  the  troops  of  spectres  play. 
To  charnel-houses,  churchyards  drear, 
Where  Death  sits  with  a  horrible  leer, 
A  lasting  grin  on  a  throne  of  bones, 
And  skim  along  the  blue  tombstones. 
Come,  let  us  speed  away, 
Lay  our  snares,  and  spread  our  tether ! 
I  will  smoothe  the  way  for  thee, 
Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me ; 
And  the  grass  shall  wave 
O'er  many  a  grave, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 

CONSUMPTION. 

Come,  let  us  speed  our  way ! 
Join  our  hands,  and  spread  our  tether ! 
I  will  furnish  food  for  thee, 
Thou  shalt  smoothe  the  way  for  me 
And  the  grass  shall  wave 
O'er  many  a  grave, 
Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 

MELANCHOLY. 

Hist,  sister,  hist !  who  comes  here  ? 
Oh,  I  know  her  by  that  tear, 
By  that  blue  eye's  languid  glare, 
By  her  skin,  and  by  her  hair : 

She  is  mine, 

And  she  is  thine, 
Now  the  deadliest  draught  prepare. 


HENRY  KIRKE  vYHITE. 


223 


CONSUMPTION. 

In  the  dismal  night  air  drest, 
I  will  creep  into  her  breast ; 
Flush  her  cheek,  and  bleach  her  skill, 
And  feed  on  the  vital  fire  within. 
Lover,  do  not  trust  her  eyes, — 
When  they  sparkle  most  she  dies ! 
Mother,  do  not  trust  her  breath, — 
Comfort  she  will  breathe  in  death  ! 
Father,  do  not  strive  to  save  her, — 
She  is  mine,  and  I  mast  have  her  ! 
The  coffin  must  be  her  bridal  bed ; 
The  windingsheet  must  wrap  her  head ; 
The  whispering  winds  must  o'er  her  sigh, 
For  soon  in  the  grave  the  maid  must  lie. 

The  worm  it  will  riot 

On  heavenly  diet, 
When  death  has  deflower' d  her  eye. 

{They  vanish. 
While  Consumption  speaks,  Angelina  enters. 
ANGELINA. 

With*  what  a  silent  and  dejected  pace 
Dost  thou,  wan  moon  !  upon  thy  way  advance 
In  the  blue  welkin's  vault ! — Pale  wanderer  ! 
Hast  thou  too  felt  the  pangs  of  hopeless  love, 
That  thus,  with  such  a  melancholy  grace, 
Thou  dost  pursue  thy  solitary  course  ? 
Hast  thy  Endymion,  smooth-faced  boy,  forsook 
Thy  widow'd  breast — on  which  the  spoiler  oft 
Has  nestled  fondly,  while  the  silver  clouds 
Fantastic  pillow'd  thee,  and  the  dim  night, 
Obsequious  to  thy  will,  encurtain'd  round 

"With  how  sad  steps,  0  Moon !  thou  climb'st  the  skies, 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 

Sir  P.  Sidney 


224 


POEMS  OP 


With  its  thick  fringe  thy  couch? — Wan  traveller, 
How  like  thy  fate  to  mine! — Yet  I  luve  still 
One  heavenly  hope  remaining,  which  thou  lack'st; 
My  woes  will  soon  be  buried  in  the  grave 
Of  kind  forg-:tfulness : — my  journey  here, 
Though  it  be  darksome,  joyless,  and  forlorn, 
Is  yet  but  short,  and  soon  my  weary  feet 
Will  greet  the  peaceful  inn  of  lasting  rest. 
But  thou,  unhappy  Queen !  art  doom'd  to  trace 
Thy  lonely  walk  in  the  drear  realms  of  night, 
While  many  a  lagging  age  shall  sweep  beneath 
The  leaden  pinions  of  unshaken  time  ; 
Though  not  a  hope  shall  spread  its  glittering  hue 
To  cheat  thy  steps  along  the  weary  way. 

Oh  that  the  sum  of  human  happiness 

Should  be  so  trifling,  and  so  frail  withal, 

That  when  posses t,  it  is  but  lessen' d  grief ; 

And  even  then  there's  scarce  a  sudden  gust 

That  blows  across  the  dismal  waste  of  life, 

But  bears  it  from  the  view. — Oh  !  who  would  shun 

The  hour  that  cuts  from  earth,  and  fear  to  press 

The  calm  and  peaceful  pillows  of  the  grave, 

And  yet  endure  the  various  ills  of  life, 

And  dark  vicissitudes  !  —Soon,  I  hope,  I  feel, 

And  am  assured,  that  I  shall  lay  my  head, 

My  weary  aching  head,  on  its  last  rest, 

And  on  my  lowly  bed  the  grass-green  sod 

Will  flourish  sweetly. — And  then  they  will  weep 

That  one  so  young,  and  what  they  're  pleased  to  call 

So  beautiful,  should  die  so  soon — And  tell 

How  painful  disappointment's  canker'd  fang 

Wither'd  the  rose  upon  my  maiden  cheek. 

Oh  foolish  ones !  why,  I  shall  sleep  so  sweetly, 

Laid  in  my  darksome  grave,  that  they  themselves 

Might  envy  me  my  rest ! — And  as  for  them, 

Who,  on  the  score  of  former  intimacy, 

May  thus  remembrance  me — they  must  themselves 

Successive  fall. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

Around  the  winter  fire 
(When  out-a-doors  the  biting  frost  congeals, 
And  shrill  the  skater's  irons  on  the  pool 
Ring  loud,  as  by  the  moonlight  he  performs 
His  graceful  evolutions)  they  not  long 
Shall  sit  and  chat  of  older  times,  and  feats 
Of  early  youth,  but  silent,  one  by  one, 
Shall  drop  into  their  shrouds. — Some,  in  their  age, 
Ripe  for  the  sickle ;  others  young,  like  me, 
And  falling  green  beneath  the  untimely  stroke. 
Thus,  in  short  time,  in  the  churchyard  forlorn, 
Where  I  shall  lie,  my  friends  will  lay  them  down, 
And  dwell  with  me,  a  happy  family. 
And  oh,  thou  cruel,  yet  beloved  youth, 
Who  now  hast  left  me  hopeless  here  to  mourn, 
Do  thou  but  shed  one  tear  upon  my  corse, 
And  say  that  I  was  gentle,  and  deserved 
A  better  lover,  and  I  shall  forgive 
All,  all  thy  wrongs  ; — and  then  do  thou  forget 
The  hapless  Margaret,  and  be  as  blest 
As  wish  can  make  thee. — Laugh,  and  play,  and  sing, 
With  thy  dear  choice,  and  never  think  of  me. 

Yet  hist,  I  hear  a  step. — In  this  dark  wood — 
*         *         *  * 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

WRITTEN  AT  A  VERY  EARLY  AGE. 

I've  read,  my  friend,  of  Dioclesian, 
And  many  another  noble  Grecian, 
Who  wealth  and  palaces  resign'ti, 
In  cots  the  joys  of  peace  to  find ; 
Maximiau's  meal  of  turnip-tops, 
(Disgusting  food  to  dainty  chops,) 


226 


POEMS  OF 


I've  also  read  of,  without  wonder : 

But  such  a  curst  egregious  blunder, 

As  that  a  man,  of  wit  and  sense, 

Should  leave  his  books  to  hoard  up  pence,- 

Forsake  the  loved  Aonian  maids, 

For  all  the  petty  tricks  of  trades, 

I  never,  either  now,  or  long  since, 

Have  heard  of  such  a  piece  of  nonsense ; 

That  one  who  learning's  joys  hath  felt, 

And  at  the  Muse's  altar  knelt, 

Should  leave  a  life  of  sacred  leisure, 

To  taste  the  accumulating  pleasure  ; 

And  metamorphosed  to  an  alley  duck, 

Grovel  in  loads  of  kindred  muck. 

Oh  !  'tis  beyond  my  comprehension ! 

A  courtier  throwing  up  his  pension, — 

A  lawyer  working  without  a  fee, 

A  parson  giving  charity, 

A  truly  pious  methodist  preacher, 

Are  not,  egad,  so  out  of  nature. 

Had  nature  made  thee  half  a  fool, 

But  given  thee  wit  to  keep  a  school, 

I  had  not  stared  at  thy  backsliding ; 

But  when  thy  wit  I  can  confide  in, 

When  well  I  know  thy  just  pretence 

To  solid  and  exalted  sense ; 

When  well  I  know  that  on  thy  head 

Philosophy  her  lights  hath  shed, 

I  stand  aghast !  thy  virtues  sum  to, 

And  wonder  what  this  world  will  come  to ! 

Yet,  whence  this  strain  ?  shall  I  repine 
That  thou  alone  dost  singly  shine  ? 
Shall  I  lament  that  thou  alone, 
Of  men  of  parts,  hast  prudence  known  ? 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


227 


LINES,  ON  READING  THE  POEMS  OF  WARTON. 

AGE  FOURTEEN. 

O  Warton  !  to  thy  soothing  shell, 
Stretch' d  remote  in  hermit  cell, 
Where  the  brook  runs  babbling  by, 
For  ever  I  could  listening  lie ; 
And  catching  all  the  Muses'  fire, 
Hold  converse  with  the  tuneful  quire. 

What  pleasing  themes  thy  page  adorn ! 
The  ruddy  streaks  of  cheerful  morn, 
The  pastoral  pipe,  the  ode  sublime, 
And  melancholy's  mournful  chime, 
Each  with  unwonted  graces  shines 
In  thy  ever  lovely  lines. 

Thy  muse  deserves  the  lasting  meed; 
Attuning  sweet  the  Dorian  reed, 
Now  the  lovelorn  swain  complains, 
And  sings  his  sorrows  to  the  plains ; 
Now  the  sylvan  scenes  appear 
Through  all  the  changes  of  the  year ; 
Or  the  elegiac  strain 
Softly  sings  of  mental  pain, 
And  mournful  diapasons  sail 
On  the  faintly-dying  gale. 

Eut,  ah !  the  soothing  scene  is  o'er ! 

On  middle  flight  we  cease  to  soar, 
For  now  the  Muse  assumes  a  bolder  sweep, 
Strikes  on  the  lyric  string  her  sorrows  deep, 

In  strains  unheard  before. 
Now,  now  the  rising  fire  thrills  high, 
Now,  now  to  heaven's  high  realms  we  fly* 

And  every  throne  explore ; 

Q  2 


228 


POEMS  OP 


The  soul  entranced,  on  mighty  wingb, 
With  all  the  poet's  heat,  up  springs, 

And  loses  earthly  woes ; 
Till  all  alarmed  at  the  giddy  height, 
The  Muse  descends  on  gentler  flight, 

And  lulls  the  wearied  soul  to  soft  repose* 


TO  THE  MUSE. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  FOURTEEN. 
I. 

Ill-fated  maid,  in  whose  unhappy  train 
Chill  poverty  and  misery  are  seen, 

Anguish  and  discontent,  the  unhappy  bane 
Of  life,  and  blackener  of  each  brighter  scene ; 

Why  to  thy  votaries  dost  thou  give  to  feel 
So  keenly  all  the  scorns — the  jeers  of  life  ? 
Why  not  endow  them  to  endure  the  strife 

With  apathy's  invulnerable  steel, 

Or  self-content  and  ease,  each  torturing  wound  to  heal. 

ii. 

Ah !  who  would  taste  your  self-deluding  joys, 
That  lure  the  unwary  to  a  wretched  doom, 

That  bid  fair  views  and  flattering  hopes  arise, 
Then  hurl  them  headlong  to  a  lasting  tomb  ? 

What  is  the  charm  which  leads  thy  victims  on 
To  persevere  in  paths  that  lead  to  woe  ? 
What  can  induce  them  in  that  route  to  go, 

In  which  innumerous  before  have  gone, 

And  died  in  misery,  poor  and  woe-begone  ? 

in. 

Yet  can  I  ask  what  charms  in  thee  are  found : 
I,  who  have  drank  from  thine  ethereal  rill, 

And  tasted  all  the  pleasures  that  abound 
Upon  Parnassus,  loved  Aoaian  hill  ? 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


229 


I,  through  whose  soul  the  Muses'  strains  aye  thrill ! 
Oh  !  I  do  feel  the  spell  with  which  I'm  tied ; 

And  though  our  annals  fearful  stories  tell, 
How  Savage  languish' d,  and  how  Otway  died, 
Yet  must  I  persevere,  let  what  e'er  will  betide. 


SONG. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  FOURTEEN. 

L 

Softly,  softly,  blow,  ye  breezes, 

Gently  o'er  my  Edwy  fly  ! 
Lo  !  he  slumbers,  slumbers  sweetly; 
Softly,  zephyrs,  pass  him  by ! 
My  love  is  asleep, 
He  lies  by  the  deep, 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

ii. 

I  have  cover'd  him  with  rushes, 
Water-flags,  and  branches  dry. 
Edwy,  long  have  been  thy  slumbers ; 
Edwy,  Edwy,  ope  thine  eye ! 
My  love  is  asleep, 
He  lies  by  the  deep, 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

in. 

Still  he  sleeps ;  he  will  not  waken, 

Eastly  closed  is  his  eye ; 
Paler  is  his  cheek,  and  chiller 
Than  the  icy  moon  on  high. 
Alas  !  he  is  dead, 
He  has  chose  his  deathbed 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 


230 


POEMS  OP 


IV. 

Is  it,  is  it  so,  my  Edwy  P 

Will  thy  slumbers  never  fly  ? 
Couldst  thou  think  I  would  survive  thee  P 
No,  my  love,  thou  bidst  me  die. 
Thou  bidst  me  seek 
Thy  death-bed  bleak 
All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 

v. 

I  will  gently  kiss  thy  cold  lips, 

On  thy  breast  Ffl  lay  my  head, 
And  the  winds  shall  sing  our  death-dirge, 
And  our  shroud  the  waters  spread ; 
The  moon  will  smile  sweet, 
And  the  wild  wave  will  beat, 
Oh !  so  softly  o'er  our  lonely  bed. 


THE  WANDERING  BOY. 

A  SONG. 

L 

When  the  winter  wind  whistles  along  the  wild  moor. 
And  the  cottager  shuts  on  the  beggar  his  door ; 
When  the  chilling  tear  stands  in  my  comfortless  eye, 
Oh,  how  hard  is  the  lot  of  the  wandering  boy  ! 

ii. 

The  winter  is  cold,  and  I  have  no  vest, 
And  my  heart  it  is  cold  as  it  beats  in  my  breast ; 
No  father,  no  mother,  no  kindred  have  1, 
For  I  am  a  parentless  wandering  boy. 

in. 

Yet  I  once  had  a  home,  and  I  once  had  a  sire, 
A  mother,  who  granted  each  infant  desire ; 
Our  cottage  it  stood  in  a  wood-embower' d  vale, 
Where  the  ringdove  would  warble  its  sorrowful  tale. 


HEKBT  KIEKE  "WHITE. 


IV. 

But  my  father  and  mother  were  summon' d  away, 
And  they  left  me  to  hardhearted  strangers  a  prey 
I  fled  from  their  rigour  with  many  a  sigh, 
And  now  Fm  a  poor  little  wandering  boy. 

v. 

The  wind  it  is  keen,  and  the  snow  loads  the  gale, 
And  no  one  will  list  to  my  innocent  tale ; 
FD  go  to  the  grave  where  my  parents  both  lie, 
And  death  shall  befriend  the  poor  wandering  boy. 


FRAGMENT. 

 The  western  gale, 

Mild  as  the  kisses  of  connubial  love, 
Plays  round  my  languid  limbs,  as  all  dissolved, 
Beneath  the  ancient  elm's  fantastic  shade 
I  lie,  exhausted  with  the  noontide  heat ; 
While  rippling  o'er  its  deep-worn  pebble  bed, 
The  rapid  rivulet  rushes  at  my  feet, 
Dispensing  coolness. — On  the  fringed  marge 
Full  many  a  flowret  rears  its  head, — or  pink, 
Or  gaudy  daffodil. — 'Tis  here,  at  noon, 
The  buskin'd  wood-nymphs  from  the  heat  retire, 
And  lave  them  in  the  fountain ;  here  secure 
From  Pan,  or  savage  satyr,  they  disport ; 
Or  stretch' d  supinely  on  the  velvet  turf, 
Lull'd  by  the  laden  bee,  or  sultry  fly, 
Invoke  the  God  of  slumber.    *   *  * 
*         *         *  * 

And  hark,  how  merrily,  from  distant  tower, 
Bing  round  the  village  bells  !  now  on  the  gale 
They  rise  with  gradual  swell,  distinct  and  loud ; 
Anon  they  die  upon  the  pensive  ear, 
Melting  in  faintest  music. — They  bespeak 


232 


POEMS  OP 


A  day  of  jubilee,  and  oft  they  bear 
Commixt  along  the  unfrequented  shore, 
The  sound  of  village  dance  and  tabor  loud, 
Startling  the  musing  ear  of  solitude. 

Such  is  the  jocund  wake  of  Whitsuntide, 
When  happy  Superstition,  gabbling  eld ! 
Holds  her  unhurtful  gambols. — All  the  day 
The  rustic  revellers  ply  the  mazy  dance, 
On  the  smooth-shaven  green,  and  then  at  eve 
Commence  the  harmless  rites  and  auguries ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  ancient  days  goes  round. 
They  tell  of  wizard  seer,  whose  potent  spells 
Could  hold  in  dreadful  thrall  the  labouring  moon, 
Or  draw  the  fix'd  stars  from  their  eminence, 
And  still  the  midnight  tempest. — Then  anon, 
Tell  of  uncharnel'd  spectres,  seen  to  glide 
Along  the  lone  wood's  unfrequented  path, 
Startling  the  nighted  traveller ;  while  the  sound 
Of  undistinguish'd  murmurs,  heard  to  come 
Erom  the  dark  centre  of  the  deep'ning  glen, 
Struck  on  his  frozen  ear. 

Oh,  Ignorance, 
Thou  art  falPn  man's  best  friend !  With  thee  he  speeds 
In  frigid  apathy  along  his  way, 
And  never  does  the  tear  of  agony 
Burn  down  his  scorching  cheek ;  or  the  keen  steel 
Of  wounded  feeling  penetrate  his  breast. 

E'en  now,  as  leaning  on  this  fragrant  bank, 

I  taste  of  all  the  keener  happiness 

Which  sense  refined  affords — E'en  now  my  heart 

Would  fain  induce  me  to  forsake  the  world, 

Throw  off  these  garments,  and  in  shepherd's  weeds, 

With  a  small  flock,  and  short  suspended  reed, 

To  sojourn  in  the  woodland. — Then  my  thought 

Draws  such  gay  pictures  of  ideal  bliss, 

That  I  could  almost  err  in  reason's  spite, 

And  trespass  on  my  judgment. 


Whitsuntide.— P.  232. 


OF  THE 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


Such  is  life : 
The  distant  prospect  always  seems  more  fair, 
And  when  attain' d,  another  still  succeeds 
Par  fairer  than  before, — yet  compass' d  round 
With  the  same  dangers,  and  the  same  dismay. 
And  we  poor  pilgrims  in  this  dreary  maze, 
Still  discontented,  chase  the  fairy  form 
Of  unsubstantial  happiness,  to  find, 
When  life  itself  is  sinking  in  the  strife, 
'Tis  but  an  airy  bubble  and  a  cheat. 


CANZONET. 
L 

Maiden  !  wrap  thy  mantle  round  thee, 

Cold  the  rain  beats  on  thy  breast : 
Why  should  horror's  voice  astound  thee  t 
Death  can  bid  the  wretched  rest ! 
All  under  the  tree 
Thy  bed  may  be, 
And  thou  mayst  slumber  peacefully. 

II. 

Maiden !  once  gay  pleasure  knew  thee ; 

Now  thy  cheeks  are  pale  and  deep : 
Love  has  been  a  lelon  to  thee ; 
Yet,  poor  maiden  do  not  weep : 
There's  rest  for  thee 
All  under  the  tree, 
Where  thou  wilt  sleep  most  peacefully. 


234 


POEMS  OF 


COMMENCEMENT  OF  A  POEM 

ON  DESPAIR. 

Some  to  Aonian  lyres  of  silver  sound 

With  mnning  elegance  attune  their  song, 

Form'd  to  sink  lightly  on  the  soothed  sense, 

And  charm  the  soul  with  softest  harmony  : 

'Tis  then  that  Hope  with  sanguine  eye  is  seen 

Roving  through  Fancy's  gay  futurity ; 

Her  heart  light  dancing  to  the  sounds  of  pleasure, 

Pleasure  of  days  to  come. — Memory  too  then 

Comes  with  her  sister,  Melancholy  sad, 

Pensively  musing  on  the  scenes  of  youth, 

Scenes  never  to  return.* 

Such  subjects  merit  poets  used  to  raise 

The  Attic  verse  harmonious ;  but  for  me 

A  dreadlier  theme  demands  my  backward  hand, 

And  bids  me  strike  the  strings  of  dissonance 

With  frantic  energy. 

*Tis  wan  Despair  I  sing ;  if  sing  I  can, 

Of  him  before  whose  blast  the  voice  of  song, 

And  mirth,  and  hope,  and  happiness,  all  fly, 

Nor  ever  dare  return.    His  notes  are  heard 

At  noon  of  night,  where,  on  the  coast  of  blood, 

The  lacerated  son  of  Angola 

Howls  forth  his  sufFrings  to  the  moaning  wind ; 

And,  when  the  awful  silence  of  the  night 

Strikes  the  chill  death-dew  to  the  murd'rer's  heart, 

He  speaks  in  every  conscience-prompted  word 

Half  utter' d,  half  suppress' d — 

'Tis  him  I  sing — Despair — terrific  name, 

Striking  unsteadily  the  tremulous  chord 

Of  timorous  terror — discord  in  the  sound  • 

For  to  a  theme  revolting  as  is  this, 

*  Alluding  to  the  two  pleasing  poems,  the  "Pleasures  of  Hope  " 
find  of  M  Memory." 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


235 


Dare  not  I  woo  the  maids  of  harmony, 
Who  love  to  sit,  and  catch  the  soothing  sound 
Of  lyre  iEolian,  or  the  martial  bugle, 
Calling  the  hero  to  the  field  of  glory, 
And  firing  him  with  deeds  of  high  emprise, 
And  warlike  triumph :  but  from  scenes  like  mine 
"Shrink  they  affrighted,  and  detest  the  bard 
Who  dares  to  sound  the  hollow  tones  of  horror. 

Hence,  then,  soft  maids, 
And  woo  the  silken  zephyr  in  the  bowers 
By  Heliconia's  sleep -inviting  stream : 
For  aid  like  yours  I  seek  not ;  'tis  for  powers 
Of  darker  hue  to  inspire  a  verse  like  mine ! 
'Tis  work  for  wizards,  sorcerers,  and  fiends  ! 

Hither,  ye  furious  imps  of  Acheron, 
Nurslings  of  hell,  and  beings  shunning  light, 
And  all  the  myriads  of  the  burning  concave ; 
Souls  of  the  damned ; — Hither,  oh !  come  and  join 
Th'  infernal  chorus.    'Tis  Despair  I  sing  ! 
He,  whose  sole  tooth  inflicts  a  deadlier  pang 
Than  all  your  tortures  join'd.    Sing,  sing  Despair  ! 
.Repeat  the  sound,  and  celebrate  his  power ; 
Unite  shouts,  screams,  and  agonizing  shrieks, 
Till  the  loud  psean  ring  through  hell's  high  vault, 
And  the  remotest  spirits  of  the  deep 
Leap  from  the  lake,  and  join  the  dreadful  song. 


TO  THE  WIND. 

AT  MIDNIGHT. 

Not  unfamiliar  to  mine  ear, 
Blasts  of  the  night !  ye  howl  as  now 
My  shudd'ring  casement  loud 
With  fitful  force  ye  beat. 


POEMS  OF 


Mine  ear  has  dwelt  in  silent  awe, 
The  howling  sweep,  the  sudden  rush ; 
And  when  the  passing  gale 
Pour'd  deep  the  hollow  dirge. 
m        *        *  • 


THE  EVE  OF  DEATH. 

IRREGULAR. 

L 

Silence  of  Death — portentous  calm, 

Those  airy  forms  that  yonder  fly, 
Denote  that  your  void  foreruns  a  storm, 

That  the  hour  of  fate  is  nigh. 
I  see,  I  see,  on  the  dim  mist  borne, 

The  Spirit  of  battles  rear  his  crest ! 
I  see,  I  see,  that  ere  the  morn, 

His  spear  will  forsake  its  hated  rest, 
And  the  widow' d  wife  of  Larrendill  will  beat  her  naked 
breast. 

II. 

O'er  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  sullen  deep 

No  softly-ruffling  zephyrs  fly ; 
But  nature  sleeps  a  deathless  sleep, 

For  the  hour  of  battle  is  nigh. 
Not  a  loose  leaf  waves  on  the  dusky  oak, 

But  a  creeping  stillness  reigns  around; 
Except  when  the  raven,  with  ominous  croak, 

On  the  ear  does  unwelcomely  sound. 
I  know,  I  know,  what  this  silence  means, 

I  know  what  the  raven  saith — 
Strike,  oh,  ye  bards  !  the  melancholy  harp, 

For  this  is  the  eve  of  death. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


III. 

Behold,  how  along  the  twilight  air 

The  shades  of  our  fathers  glide  ! 
There  Morven  fted,  with  the  blood-drench' d  hair, 

And  Colma  with  grey  side. 
No  gale  around  its  coolness  flings, 

Yet  sadly  sigh  the  gloomy  trees ; 
And  hark,  how  the  harp's  unvisited  strings 

Sound  sweet,  as  if  swept  by  a  whispering  breeze ! 
'Tis  done  !  the  sun  he  has  set  in  blood ! 

He  will  never  set  more  to  the  brave ; 
Let  us  pour  to  the  hero  the  dirge  of  death — 

Eor  to-morrow  he  hies  to  the  grave. 


THANATOS. 

Oh  !  who  would  cherish  life, 

And  cling  unto  this  heavy  clog  of  clay- 
Love  this  rude  world  of  strife, 

Where  glooms  and  tempests  cloud  the  fairest  day  ! 
And  where,  'neath  outward  smiles 
Conceal' d,  the  snake  lies  feeding  on  its  prey, 
Where  pitfalls  lie  in  ev'ry  flowery  way, 

And  syrens  lure  the  wanderer  to  their  wiles  ! 

Hateful  it  is  to  me, 
Its  riotous  railings  and  revengeful  strife  ; 

I'm  tired  with  all  its  screams  and  brutal  shouts 
Dinning  the  ear ; — away — away  with  life  ! 
And  welcome,  oh  !  thou  silent  maid, 
Who  in  some  foggy  vault  art  laid, 
Where  never  daylight'"  dazzling  ray 
Comes  to  disturb  th^  dismal  sway ; 
And  there  amid  unwholesome  damps  dost  steep, 
In  such  forgetful  slumbers  deep, 
That  all  thy  senses  stupifled, 
Are  to  marble  petrified. 


238 


POEMS  OP 


Sleepy  Death,  I  welcome  thee  I 

Sweet  are  thy  calms  to  misery. 

Poppies  I  will  ask  no  more, 

Nor  the  fatal  hellebore ; 

Death  is  the  best,  the  only  cure, 

His  are  slumbers  ever  sure. 

Lay  me  in  the  Gothic  tomb, 

In  whose  solemn  fretted  gloom 

I  may  lie  in  mouldering  state, 

With  all  the  grandeur  of  the  great  t 

Over  me,  magnificent, 

Carve  a  stately  monument ; 

Then  thereon  my  statue  lay, 

"With  hands  in  attitude  to  pray, 

And  angels  serve  to  hold  my  head, 

"Weeping  o'er  the  father  dead. 

Duly  too  at  close  of  day, 

Let  the  pealing  organ  play ; 

And  while  the  harmonious  thunders  roll,. 

Chant  a  vesper  to  my  soul : 

'Thus  how  sweet  my  sleep  will  be, 

Shut  out  from  thoughtful  misery ! 


ATHANATOS. 

Away  with  death — away 
With  all  her  sluggish  sleeps  and  chilling  damps 

Impervious  to  the  day, 
Where  nature  sinks  into  inanity. 
How  can  the  soul  desire 
Such  hateful  nothingness  to  crave, 
And  yield  with  joy  the  vital  fire 
To  moulder  in  the  grave ! 

Yet  mortal  life  is  sad, 
Eternal  storms  molest  its  sullen  sky ; 

And  sorrows  ever  rife 
Drain  the  sacred  fountain  dry — 
Away  with  mortal  life  ! 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


230 


But,  hail  the  calm  reality, 

The  seraph  Immortality, 

Hail  the  heavenly  bowers  of  peace, 

Where  all  the  storms  of  passion  cease. 

Wild  life's  dismaying  struggle  o'er, 

The  wearied  spirit  weeps  no  more ; 

But  wears  the  eternal  smile  of  joy, 

Tasting  bliss  without  alloy. 

Welcome,  welcome,  happy  bowers, 

Where  no  passing  tempest  lowers ; 

But  the  azure  heavens  display 

The  everlasting  smile  of  day ; 

Where  the  choral  seraph  choir, 

Strike  to  praise  the  harmonious  lyre ; 

And  the  spirit  sinks  to  ease, 

Lull'd  by  distant  symphonies. 

Oh  !  to  think  of  meeting  there 

The  friends  whose  graves  received  our  tear, 

The  daughter  loved,  the  wife  adored, 

To  our  widow' d  arms  restored  • 

And  all  the  joys  which  death  did  sever, 

Given  to  us  again  for  ever ! 

Who  would  cling  to  wretched  life, 

And  hug  the  poison'd  thorn  of  strife— 

Who  would  not  long  from  earth  to  fly., 

A  sluggish  senseless  lump  to  lie, 

When  the  glorious  prospect,  lies 

"Full  before  his  raptured  eyes  r 


MUSIC. 

Written  between  the  ages  of  fourteen  and  fifteen^  with  a  fez» 
subsequent  verbal  alterations. 

Music,  all-powerful  o'er  the  human  mind, 
Can  still  each  mental  storm,  each  tumult  calm, 

Soothe  anxious  care  on  sleepless  couch  reclined, 
And  e'en  fierce  anger's  furious  rage  disarm. 


240 


POEMS  OP 


At  her  command  the  various  passions  lie ; 

She  stirs  to  battle,  or  she  lulls  to  peace, 
Melts  the  charm' d  soul  to  thrilling  ecstasy, 

And  bids  the  jarring  world's  harsh  clangour  ceiise. 

Her  martial  sounds  can  fainting  troops  inspire 
With  strength  unwonted,  and  enthusiasm  raise, 

Infuse  new  ardour,  and  with  youthful  fire 
Urge  on  the  warrior  grey  with  length  of  days. 

Par  better  she  when  with  her  soothing  lyre 
She  charms  the  falchion  from  the  savage  grasp, 

And  melting  into  pity  vengeful  ire, 

Looses  the  bloody  breastplate's  iron  clasp. 

With  her  in  pensive  mood  I  long  to  roam, 
At  midnight's  hour,  or  evening's  calm  decline, 

And  thoughtful  o'er  the  falling  streamlet's  foam, 
In  calm  seclusion's  hermit  walks  recline. 

Whilst  mellow  sounds  from  distant  copse  arise, 
Of  softest  flute  or  reeds  harmonic  joined, 

With  rapture  thrill'd  each  worldly  passion  dies, 
And  pleased  attention  claims  the  passive  mind. 

Soft  through  the  dell  the  dying  strains  retire, 
Then  burst  majestic  in  the  varied  swell; 

Now  breathe  melodious  as  the  Grecian  lyre, 
Or  on  the  ear  in  sinking  cadence  dwell. 

Romantic  sounds  !  such  is  the  bliss  ye  give, 

That  heaven's  bright  scenes  seem  bursting  on  the  sou] 

With  joy  I'd  yield  each  sensual  wish  to  live 
Tor  ever  'neath  your  undefiled  control. 

Oh,  surely  melody  from  heaven  was  sent, 
To  cheer  the  soul  when  tired  with  human  strife, 

To  soothe  the  wayward  heart  by  sorrow  renfc, 
And  soften  down  the  rugged  road  of  life. 


OF  THE 


The  Harvest  Moon.  — P.  241. 


HENRY  K.IRKE  WHITE. 


241 


ODE  TO  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

 Cum  ruit  imbriferum  ver: 

Spicea  jam  campis  cum  messis  inhorruit,  et  cum 
Frumenta  in  viridi  stipula  lactentia  turgent ; 

*  *  *  * 

Cunct  tibi  Cererem  pubes  agrestis  adoret. 

Virgil. 

Moon  of  harvest,  herald  mild 
Of  plenty,  rustic  labour's  child, 
Hail !  oh  hail !  I  greet  thy  beam, 
As  soft  it  trembles  o'er  the  stream, 
And  gilds  the  straw-thatch'd  hamlet  wide, 
Where  innocence  and  peace  reside ; 
Tis  thou  that  glad'st  with  joy  the  rustic  throng, 
Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  th'  exhilarating  song. 

Moon  of  harvest,  I  do  love 

O'er  the  uplands  now  to  rove, 

While  thy  modest  ray  serene 

Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene ; 

And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 

In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky, 
Where  no  thin  vapour  intercepts  thy  ray, 
But  in  unclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on  thy  way. 

Pleasing  'tis,  0  modest  moon ! 
Now  the  night  is  at  her  noon, 
'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie, 
While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh, 
Eanning  soft  the  sun-tann'd  wheat, 
Ripen' d  by  the  summer's  heat ; 
Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy 
When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye, 

And  thinking  soon, 

Oh,  modest  moon  t 
a 


POEMS  OF 


How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 

Along  the  road, 

To  see  the  load, 
The  last  dear  load  of  harvest  home. 

Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains, 

Stern  despoilers  of  the  plains, 

Hence  away,  the  season  flee, 

Foes  to  light-heart  jollity ; 

May  no  winds  careering  high, 

Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky  ; 
But  may  all  nature  smile  with  aspect  boon, 
When  in  the  heavens  thou  show'st  thy  face,  oh,  Harvest 
Moon! 

'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies,  * 

The  husbandman,  with  sleep-seal'd  eyes ; 

He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 

The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound ; 

Oh !  may  no  hurricane  destroy 

His  visionary  views  of  joy : 
God  of  the  winds  !  oh,  hear  his  humble  prayer, 
And  while  the  moon  of  harvest  phiues,  thy  blust'ring 
whirlwind  spare. 

Sons  of  luxury  to  you 

Leave  I  sleep's  dull  power  to  woo : 

Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed, 

While  fev'rish  dreams  surround  your  head, 

I  will  seek  the  woodland  glade, 

Penetrate  the  thickest  shade,  >, 

Wrapt  in  contemplation's  dreams, 

Musing  high  on  holy  themes, 

While  on  the  gale 

Shall  softly  sail 
The  nightingale's  enchanting  tune, 

And  oft  my  eyes 

Shall  grateful  rise 
To  thee,  the  modest  Harvest  Moon ! 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


THE  SHIPWRECKED  SOLITARY'S  SONG, 

TO  THE  NIGHT. 

Thou,  spirit  of  the  spangled  night ! 
I  woo  thee  from  the  watch-tower  high, 
Where  thou  dost  sit  to  guide  the  bark 
Of  lonely  mariner. 

The  winds  are  whistling  o'er  the  wolds, 
The  distant  main  is  moaning  low ; 
Come,  let  us  sit  and  weave  a  song — 
A  melancholy  song ! 

Sweet  is  the  scented  gale  of  morn, 
And  sweet  the  noontide's  fervid  beam, 
But  sweeter  far  the  solemn  calm 

That  marks  thy  mournful  reign, 

I've  passed  here  many  a  lonely  year, 
And  never  human  voice  have  heard: 
I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year, 
A  solitary  man. 

And  I  have  linger' d  in  the  shade, 
Erom  sultry  noon's  hot  beam.    And  I 
Have  knelt  before  my  wicker  door, 
To  sing  my  ev'ning  song. 

And  I  have  hail'd  the  grey  morn  high, 
On  the  blue  mountain's  misty  brow, 
And  try  to  tune  my  little  reed 
To  hymns  ot  harmony. 

But  never  could  I  tune  my  reed, 
At  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve,  so  sweet, 
As  when  upon  the  ocean  shore 

I  hail'd  thy  star-beam  mild. 
£  2 


244 


POEMS  OF  HENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 


The  day-spring  brings  not  joy  to  me, 
The  moon  it  whispers  not  of  peace ; 
Bnt  oh !  when  darkness  robes  the  heav'ns, 
My  woes  are  mix'd  with  joy. 

And  then  I  talk,  and  often  think 
Aerial  voices  answer  me ; 
And  oh !  I  am  not  then  alone— 
A  solitary  man. 

And  when  the  blust'ring  winter  winds 
Howl  in  the  woods  that  clothe  my  cave, 
I  lay  me  on  my  lonely  mat, 

And  pleasant  are  my  dreams. 

And  Eancy  gives  me  back  my  wife ; 
And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  child ; 
She  gives  me  back  my  little  home, 
And  all  its  placid  joys. 

Then  hateful  is  the  morning  hour, 
That  calls  me  from  the  dream  of  bliss* 
To  find  myself  still  lone,  and  hear 

The  same  dull  sounds  again. 

The  deep-toned  winds,  the  moaning  sea 
The  whisp'ring  of  the  boding  trees, 
The  brook's  eternal  flow,  and  oft 

The  Condor's  hollow  scream* 


CLIFTON  GROVE. 


This,  and  the  following  Poems,  are  reprinted  from  the  little  volume, 
which  i;ic  Auilicr  puulisnuu  Hi 


TO 

HER  GRACE 

THE  DUCHESS  OF  DEVONSHIRE, 

TOE  FOLLOWING 

TRIFLING  EFFUSIONS 

OF 

A  VEBY   YOUTHFUL  MUSE, 

ABB 

BY  ITER  GRACE'S 
MUCH  OBLIGED  AND  GRATEFUL  ST!BVAN7, 

HENRY  KI11KE  WHITE. 

lTrUinghanu 


PREFACE. 


Tiie  following  attempts  in  verse  are  laid  before  the  public 
with  extreme  diffidence.  The  author  is  very  conscious  that 
the  juvenile  efforts  of  a  youth,  who  has  not  received  the 
polish  of  academical  discipline,  and  who  has  been  but 
sparingly  blessed  with  opportunities  for  the  prosecution  of 
scholastic  pursuits,  must  necessarily  be  defective  in  the 
accuracy  and  finished  elegance,  which  mark  the  works  of 
the  man  who  has  passed  his  life  in  the  retirement  of  his 
study,  furnishing  his  mind  with  images,  and  at  the  same 
time  attaining  the  power  of  disposing  those  images  to  the 
best  advantage. 

The  unpremeditated  effusions  of  a  boy,  from  his  thirteenth 
year,  employed,  not  in  the  acquisition  of  literary  information, 
but  in  the  more  active  business  of  life,  must  not  be  expected 
to  exhibit  any  considerable  portion  of  the  correctness  of  a 
Virgil,  or  the  vigorous  compression  of  a  Horace.  Men  are 
not,  I  believe,  frequently  known  to  bestow  much  labour  on 
their  amusements :  and  these  poems  were,  most  of  them 
mitten  merely  to  beguile  a  leisure  hour,  or  to  fill  up  the 
languid  intervals  of  studies  of  a  severer  nature. 

Has  to  ouceios  epyov  ayairaco.  "  Every  one  loves  his  own. 
work,"  says  the  Stagyrite ;  but  it  was  no  overweening 
affection  of  this  kind  which  induced  this  publication.  Had 
the  author  relied  on  his  own  judgment  only,  these  poems 
would  not,  in  all  probability,  ever  have  seen  the  light. 

Perhaps  it  may  be  asked  of  him,  what  are  his  motives  for 
this  publication  ?  He  answers — simply  these  :  the  facilitation 
through  its  means  of  those  studies  which,  from  his  earliest 


248 


PREFACE. 


infancy,  have  been  the  principal  objects  of  his  ambition ;  and 
the  increase  of  the  capacity  to  pursue  those  inclinations 
which  may  one  day  place  him  in  an  honourable  station  in 
the  scale  of  society. 

The  principal  poem  in  this  little  collection  (Clifton  Grove)  is, 
he  fears,  deficient  in  numbers,  and  harmonious  coherency  of 
parts.  It  is,  however,  merely  to  be  regarded  as  a  description 
of  a  nocturnal  ramble  in  that  charming  retreat,  accompanied 
with  such  reflections  as  the  scene  naturally  suggested.  It 
was  written  twelve  months  ago,  when  the  author  was  in  his 
sixteenth  year.  The  Miscellanies  are  some  of  them  the 
productions  of  a  very  early  age.  Of  the  Odes,  that  "  To  an 
early  Primrose,"  was  written  at  thirteen — the  others  are  of 
a  later  date. — The  sonnets  are  chiefly  irregular;  they  have, 
perhaps,  no  other  claim  to  that  specific  denomination,  than 
that  they  consist  only  of  fourteen  lines. 

Such  are  the  poems,  towards  which  I  entreat  the  lenity  of 
the  public.  The  critic  will  doubtless  find  in  them  much  to 
condemn,  he  may  likewise,  possibly,  discover  something  to 
commend.  Let  him  scan  my  faults  with  an  indulgent  eye, 
and  in  the  work  of  that  correction  which  I  invite,  let  him 
remember,  he  is  holding  the  iron  Mace  of  Criticism  over 
the  flimsy  superstructure  of  a  youth  of  seventeen,  and 
remembering  that,  may  he  forbear  from  crushing  by  too 
much  rigour,  the  painted  butterfly,  whose  transient  colours 
may  otherwise  be  capable  of  affording  a  moment's  innocent 
amusement. 

H.  Ki  White. 


Nottingham, 


TO  MY  LYRE. 


AN  ODE. 
I. 

Thou  simple  Lyre  ! — Thy  music  wild 

Has  served  to  charm  the  weary  hour, 
And  many  a  lonely  night  1ms  'guiled, 
When  even  pain  has  own'd  and  smiled, 
Its  fascinating  power. 

II. 

Yet,  oh,  my  Lyre !  the  busy  crowd 
Will  little  heed  thy  simple  tones : 
Them,  mightier  minstrels  harping  loud 
Engross, — and  thou,  and  I,  must  shroud 
Where  dark  oblivion  'thrones. 

in. 

No  hand,  thy  diapason  o'er, 

Well  skill' d,  I  throw  with  sweep  sublime  j 
For  me,  no  academic  lore 
Has  taught  the  solemn  strain  to  pour, 

Or  build  the  polish'd  rhyme. 

IV. 

Yet  thou  to  Sylvan  themes  canst  soar ; 

Thou  know'st  to  charm  the  woodland  train  s 
The  rustic  swains  believe  thy  power 
Can  hush  the  wild  winds  when  they  roar, 

And  still  the  billowy  main. 


250 


POEMS  OF  HENRY  KI11KE  WIIITK.. 


V. 

These  honours,  Lyre,  we  yet  may  keep, 
I,  still  unknown,  may  live  with  thee, 
And  gentle  zephyr's  wing  will  sweep 
Thy  solemn  string,  where  low  I  sleep, 
Beneath  the  alder  tree. 

VI. 

This  little  dirge  will  please  me  more 
Than  the  full  requiem's  swelling  peal  * 

Fd  rather  than  that  crowds  should  sigh 

For  me,  that  from  some  kindred  eye 
The  trickling  tear  should  steal. 

VII. 

Yet  dear  to  me  the  wreath  of  bay, 

Perhaps  from  me  debarr'd ; 
And  dear  to  me  the  classic  zone, 
"Which  snatch' d  from  learning's  labour'd  throne^ 

Adorns  the  accepted  bard. 

VIII. 

And  O  !  if  yet  'twere  mine  to  dwell 

Where  Cam,  or  Isis,  winds  along, 
Perchance,  inspired  with  ardour  chaste, 
I  yet  might  call  the  ear  of  taste 

To  listen  to  my  song. 

IX. 

Oh !  then,  my  little  Mend,  thy  style 

I'd  change  to  happier  lays, 
Oh !  then,  the  cloister'd  glooms  should  smiley 
And  through  the  long,  the  fretted  aisle 

Should  swell  the  note  of  praise. 


OF  TIE 


Clifton  Grove. 


—P.  251. 


251 


CLIFTON  GROVE. 

A  SKETCH  IN  VERSE. 


Lo !  in  the  west,  fast  fades  the  lingering  light, 
And  day's  last  vestige  takes  its  silent  flight. 
No  more  is  heard  the  woodman's  measured  stroke 
Which,  with  the  dawn,  from  yonder  dingle  broke ; 
No  more,  hoarse  clamouring  o'er  the  uplifted  head* 
The  crows  assembling,  seek  their  wind-rock'd  bed 
Still'd  is  the  village  hum— the  woodland  sounds 
Have  ceased  to  echo  o'er  the  dewy  grounds, 
And  general  silence  reigns,  save  when  below, 
The  murmuring  Trent  is  scarcely  heard  to  flow  ;. 
And  save  when,  swung  by  'nighted  rustic  late, 
Oft,  on  its  hinge,  rebounds  the  jarring  gate : 
Or,  when  the  sheep  bell,  in  the  distant  vale, 
Breathes  its  wild  music  on  the  downy  gale. 

Now,  when  the  rustic  wears  the  social  smile, 
Released  from  day  and  its  attendant  toil, 
And  draws  his  household  round  their  evening  fire* 
And  tells  the  oft-told  tales  that  never  tire : 
Or,  where  the  town's  blue  turrets  dimly  rise, 
And  manufacture  taints  the  ambient  skies, 
The  pale  mechanic  leaves  the  labouring  loom, 
The  air-pent  hold,  the  pestilential  room, 
And  rushes  out,  impatient  to  begin 
The  stated  course  of  customary  sin : 
Now,  now,  my  solitary  way  I  bend 
Where  solemn  groves  in  awful  state  impend, 
And  cliffs,  that  boldly  rise  above  the  plain, 
Bespeak,  blest  Clifton !  thy  sublime  domain. 
Here,  lonely  wandering  o'er  the  sylvan  bower, 
I  come  to  pass  the  meditative  hour ; 


252 


POEMS  OF 


To  bid  awhile  the  strife  of  passion  cease, 

And  woo  the  calms  of  solitude  and  peace. 

And  oh !  thou  sacred  power,  who  rear'st  on  high 

Thy  leafy  throne  where  waving  poplars  sigh  ! 

Genius  of  woodland  shades !  whose  mild  control 

Steals  with  resistless  witchery  to  the  soul, 

Come  with  thy  wonted  ardour  and  inspire 

My  glowing  bosom  with  thy  hallowed  fire. 

And  thou,  too,  Fancy !  from  thy  starry  sphere, 

Where  to  the  hymning  orbs  thou  lend'st  thine  ear, 

Do  thou  descend,  and  bless  my  ravish' d  sight, 

VeiPd  in  soft  visions  of  serene  delight. 

At  thy  command  the  gale  that  passes  by 

Bears  in  its  whispers  mystic  harmony. 

Thou  wav'st  thy  wand,  and  lo !  what  forms  appear  ! 

On  the  dark  cloud  what  giant  shapes  career  ! 

The  ghosts  of  Ossian  skim  the  misty  vale, 

And  hosts  of  Sylphids  on  the  moon-beam  sail. 

This  gloomy  alcove,  darkling  to  the  sight, 
Where  meeting  trees  create  eternal  night ; 
Save,  when  from  yonder  stream,  the  sunny  ray, 
Reflected  gives  a  dubious  gleam  of  day : 
Recalls  endearing  to  my  alter' d  mind, 
Times,  when  beneath  the  boxen  hedge  reclined 
I  watch' d  the  lapwing  to  her  clamorous  brood ; 
Or  lured  the  robin  to  its  scatter'd  food , 
Or  woke  with  song  the  woodland  echo  wild, 
And  at  each  gay  response  delighted,  smiled. 
How  oft,  when  childhood  threw  its  golden  ray 
Of  gay  romance  o'er  every  happy  day, 
Here  would  I  run,  a  visionary  boy, 
When  the  hoarse  tempest  shook  the  vaulted  sky, 
And  fancy -led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
Sternly  careering  on  the  eddying  storm ; 
And  heard,  while  awe  congeal' d  my  inmost  soul, 
His  voice  terrific  in  the  thunders  roll. 
With  secret  joy,  I  view'd  with  vivid  glaie, 
The  volley' d  lightnings  cleave  the  sullen  air ; 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


And,  as  the  warring  winds  around  reviled, 

With  awful  pleasure  big, — I  heard  and  smil'd. 

Beloved  remembrance ! — Memory  which  endears 

This  silent  spot  to  my  advancing  years. 

Here  dwells  eternal  peace,  eternal  rest, 

In  shades  like  these  to  live,  is  to  be  blest. 

While  happiness  evades  the  busy  crowd, 

In  rural  coverts  loves  the  maid  to  shroud. 

And  thou,  too,  Inspiration,  whose  wild  flame 

Shoots  with  electric  swiftness  through  the  frame, 

Thou  here  dost  love  to  sit,  with  up-turn'd  eye, 

And  listen  to  the  stream  that  murmurs  by, 

The  woods  that  wave,  the  grey-owl's  silken  flight, 

The  mellow  music  of  the  listening  night. 

Congenial  calms  more  welcome  to  my  breast 

Than  maddening  joy  in  dazzling  lustre  drest, 

To  Heaven  my  prayers,  my  daily  prayers  I  raise, 

That  ye  may  bless  my  unambitious  days, 

Withdrawn,  remote,  from  all  the  haunts  of  strife 

May  trace  with  me  the  lowly  vale  of  life, 

And  when  her  banner  Death  shall  o'er  me  wave 

May  keep  your  peaceful  vigils  on  my  grave. 

Now,  as  I  rove,  where  wide  the  prospect  grows, 

A  livelier  light  upon  my  vision  flows. 

No  more  above,  the  embracing  branches  meet ; 

No  more  the  river  gurgles  at  my  feet, 

But  seen  deep  down  the  cliff's  impending  side 

Through  hanging  woods,  now  gleams  its  silver  tide. 

Dim  is  my  upland  path, — across  the  Green 

Fantastic  shadows  fling,  yet  oft  between 

The  chequer'd  glooms,  the  moon  her  chaste  ray  sheds 

Where  knots  of  blue-bells  droop  their  graceful  heads, 

And  beds  of  violets  blooming  'mid  the  trees, 

Load  with  waste  fragrance  the  nocturnal  breeze. 

Say,  why  does  man,  while  to  his  opening  sight, 
Each  shrub  presents  a  source  of  chaste  delight, 
And  Nature  bids  for  him  her  treasures  flow, 
And  gives  to  him  alone,  his  bliss  to  know, 


254 


POEMS  OF 


Why  does  he  pant  for  Vice's  deadly  charms  ? 
Why  clasp  the  syren  Pleasure  to  his  arms  ? 
And  suck  deep  draughts  of  her  voluptuous  breath, 
Though  fraught  with  ruin,  infamy,  and  death  ? 
Could  he  who  thus  to  vile  enjoyments  clings, 
Know  what  calm  joy  from  purer  sources  springs, 
Could  he  but  feel  how  sweet,  how  free  from  strife, 
The  harmless  pleasures  of  a  harmless  life, 
No  more  his  soul  would  pant  for  joys  impure, 
The  deadly  chalice  would  no  more  allure, 
But  the  sweet  portion  he  was  wont  to  sip, 
Would  tuw*  to  poison  on  his  conscious  lip. 

Fair  Nature  !  thee,  in  all  thy  varied  charms, 
Fain  would  I  clasp  for  ever  in  my  arms  : 
Thine,  are  the  sweets  which  never,  never  sate, 
Thine,  still  remain,  through  all  the  storms  of  fate. 
Though  not  for  me,  'twas  Heaven's  divine  command 
To  roll  in  acres  of  paternal  land, 
Yet  still,  my  lot  is  blest,  while  I  enjoy 
Thine  opening  beauties  with  a  lover's  eye. 

Happy  is  he,  who,  though  the  cup  of  bliss 

Has  ever  shunn'd  him  when  he  thought  to  kiss, 

Who,  still  in  abject  poverty,  or  pain, 

Can  count  with  pleasure  what  small  joys  remain: 

Though  were  his  sight  convey'd  from  zone  to  zone, 

He  would  not  find  one  spot  of  ground  his  own, 

Yet,  as  he  looks  around,  he  cries  with  glee, 

These  bounding  prospects  all  were  made  for  me : 

For  me,  yon  waving  fields  their  burthen  bear, 

For  me,  yon  labourer  guides  the  shining  share, 

While  happy  I,  in  idle  ease  recline, 

And  mark  the  glorious  visions  as  they  shine. 

This  is  the  charm,  by  sages  often  told, 

Converting  all  it  touches  into  gold. 

Content  can  soothe,  where'er  by  fortune  placed. 

Can  rear  a  garden  in  the  desert  waste. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


255 


How  lovely,  from  this  hill's  superior  height, 
Spreads  the  wide  view  before  my  straining  sight ! 
O'er  many  a  varied  mile  of  lengthening  ground, 
E'en  to  the  blue-ridged  hill's  remotest  bound 
My  ken  is  borne,  while  o'er  my  head  serene 
'The  silver  moon  illumes  the  misty  scene, 
Ttfo w  shining  clear,  now  darkening  in  the  glade, 
In  all  the  soft  varieties  of  shade. 

Behind  me,  lo !  the  peaceful  hamlet  lies 
The  drowsy  god  has  seal'd  the  cotter's  eyes. 
No  more,  where  late  the  social  faggot  blazed, 
The  vacant  peal  resounds,  by  little  raised ; 
But,  lock'd  in  silence,  o'er  Arion's*  star 
'The  slumbering  night  rolls  on  her  velvet  car : 
The  church-bell  tolls,  deep-sounding  down  the  glade, 
The  solemn  hour,  for  walking  spectres  made ; 
The  simple  plough-boy,  wakening  with  the  sound, 
Listens  aghast,  and  turns  him  startled  round, 
"Then  stops  his  ears,  and  strives  to  close  his  eyes, 
Lest  at  the  sound  some  grisly  ghost  should  rise. 
"Now  ceased  the  long,  the  monitory  toll, 
Returning  silence  stagnates  in  the  soul ; 
Save  when,  disturb'd  by  dreams,  with  wild  affright, 
The  deep-mouth'd  mastiff  bays  the  troubled  night; 
'Or  where  the  village  ale-house  crowns  the  vale, 
The  creaking  sign-post  whistles  to  the  gale. 
A  little  onward  let  me  bend  my  way, 
Where  the  moss'd  seat  invites  the  traveller's  stay. 
"That  spot,  oh!  yet  it  is  the  very  same; 
That  hawthorn  gives  it  shade,  and  gave  it  name; 
There  yet  the  primrose  opes  its  earliest  bloom, 
There  yet  the  violet  sheds  its  first  perfume, 
And  in  the  branch  that  rears  above  the  rest 
The  robin  unmolested  builds  its  nest. 

The  Constellation  Delphinus.  For  authority  for  this  appel- 
lation, vide  Ovid's  Fasti.    B.  xi.,  113. 


'Twas  here,  when  hope  presiding  o'er  my  breast, 

In  vivid  colours  every  prospect  drest ; 

'Twas  here,  reclining,  I  indulged  her  dreams, 

And  lost  the  hour  in  visionary  schemes. 

Here,  as  I  press  once  more  the  ancient  seat, 

Why,  bland  deceiver !  not  renew  the  cheat  ? 

Say,  can  a  few  short  years  this  change  achieve, 

That  thy  illusions  can  no  more  deceive ! 

Time's  sombrous  tints  have  every  view  o'erspread, 

And  thou,  too,  gay  Seducer !  art  thou  fled  ? 

Though  vain  thy  promise,  and  the  suit  severe, 

Yet  thou  couldst  guile  misfortune  of  her  tear, 

And  oft  thy  smiles  across  life's  gloomy  way, 

Could  throw  a  gleam  of  transitory  day. 

How  gay,  in  youth,  the  flattering  future  seems ; 

How  sweet  is  manhood  in  the  infant's  dreams ; 

The  dire  mistake  too  soon  is  brought  to  light, 

And  all  is  buried  in  redoubled  night. 

Yet  some  can  rise  superior  to  the  pain, 

And  in  their  breasts  the  charmer  Hope  retain : 

While  others,  dead  to  feeling,  can  survey 

Unmoved,  their  fairest  prospects  fade  away : 

But  yet  a  few  there  be, — too  soon  o'ercast ! 

Who  shrink  unhappy  from  the  adverse  blast, 

And  woo  the  first  bright  gleam,  which  breaks  the  gfoom, 

To  gild  the  silent  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 

So,  in  these  shades,  the  early  primrose  blows, 

Too  soon  deceived  by  suns,  and  melting  snows : 

So  falls  untimely  on  the  desert  waste, 

Its  blossoms  withering  in  the  northern  blast. 

Now  pass'd  whate'er  the  upland  heights  display, 
Down  the  steep  cliff  I  wind  my  devious  way ; 
Oft  rousing,  as  the  rustling  path  I  beat, 
The  timid  hare  from  its  accustom' d  seat. 
And  oh !  how  sweet  this  walk  o'erhung  with  wood, 
That  winds  the  margin  of  the  solemn  flood ! 
What  rural  objects  steal  upon  the  sight ! 
What  rising  views  Drolong"  the  calm  delight! 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


257 


The  brooklet  branching  from  the  silver  Trent, 
The  whispering  birch  by  every  zephyr  bent, 
The  woody  island,  and  the  naked  mead, 
The  lowly  hut  half  hid  in  groves  of  reed, 
The  rural  wicket,  and  the  rural  stile, 
And  frequent  interspersed,  the  woodman's  pile. 
Above,  below,  where'er  I  turn  my  eyes, 
Rocks,  waters,  woods,  in  grand  succession  rise. 
High  up  the  cliff  the  varied  groves  ascend, 
And  mournful  larches  o'er  the  wave  impend. 
Around,  what  sounds,  what  magic  sounds  arise, 
What  glimm'ring  scenes  salute  my  ravish'd  eyes : 
Soft  sleep  the  waters  on  their  pebbly  bed, 
The  woods  wave  gently  o'er  my  drooping  head, 
And  swelling  slow,  comes  wafted  on  the  wind, 
Lorn  Progne's  note  from  distant  copse  behind. 
Still,  every  rising  sound  of  calm  delight 
Stamps  but  the  fearful  silence  of  the  night ; 
Save,  when  is  heard,  between  each  dreary  rest, 
Discordant  from  her  solitary  nest, 
The  owl,  duU-screaming  to  the  wandering  moon ; 
Now  riding,  cloud-wrapt,  near  her  highest  noon : 
Or  when  the  wild-duck,  southering,  hither  rides, 
And  plunges  sullen  in  the  sounding  tides. 

How  oft,  in  this  sequester'd  spot,  when  youth 
Gave  to  each  tale  the  holy  force  of  truth, 
Have  I  long-linger' d,  while  the  milk-maid  sung 
The  tragic  legend,  till  the  woodland  rung  ! 
That  tale,  so  sad !  which,  still  to  memory  dear, 
From  its  sweet  source  can  call  the  sacred  tear. 
And  (lull'd  to  rest  stern  reason's  harsh  control) 
Steal  its  soft  magic  to  the  passive  soul. 
These  hallow'd  shades, — these  trees  that  woo  the  wind, 
Recall  its  faintest  features  to  my  mind. 
A  hundred  passing  years,  with  march  sublime, 
Have  swept  beneath  the  silent  wing  of  time, 
s 


POEMS  OF 


Since,  in  yon  hamlet's  solitary  shade, 
Reclusely  dwelt  the  far-famed  Clifton  Maid, 
The  beauteous  Margaret  ;  for  her  each  swain 
Confest  in  private  his  peculiar  pain, 
In  secret  sigh'd,  a  victim  to  despair, 
Nor  dared  to  hope  to  win  the  peerless  fair. 
No  more  the  shepherd  on  the  blooming  mead 
Attuned  to  gaiety  his  artless  reed, 
No  more  entwined  the  pansied  wreath,  to  deck 
His  favourite  wether's  unpolluted  neck; 
But  b'stless,  by  yon  babbling  stream  reclined, 
He  mix'd  his  sobbings  with  the  passing  wind, 
Bemoan' d  his  hapless  love,  or  boldly  bent, 
Tar  from  these  smiling  fields,  a  rover  went, 
O'er  distant  lands,  in  search  of  ease  to  roam, 
A  self-will'd  exile  from  his  native  home. 

Yet  not  to  all  the  maid  express'd  disdain, 

Her  Bateman  loved,  nor  loved  the  youth  in  vain. 

Full  oft,  low  whispering  o'er  these  arching  boughs, 

The  echoing  vault  responded  to  their  vows, 

As  here  deep  hidden  from  the  glare  of  day, 

Enamour' d,  oft  they  took  their  secret  way. 

Yon  bosky  dingle,  still  the  rustics  name ; 
5Twas  there  the  blushing  maid  confess' d  her  ftanie. 
Down  yon  green  lane  they  oft  were  seen  to  hie, 
When  evening  slumber' d  on  the  western  sky. 
That  blasted  yew,  that  mouldering  walnut  bare, 
Each  bears  mementoes  of  the  fated  pair. 

One  eve,  when  Autumn  loaded  ev'ry  breeze 
With  the  fallen  honours  of  the  mourning  trees, 
The  maiden  waited  at  the  accustomed  bower, 
And  waited  long  beyond  the  appointed  hour, 
Yet  Bateman  came  not : — o'er  the  woodland  drear. 
Howling  portentous,  did  the  winds  career ; 


HENRY  KIItKE  WHITE. 


259 


And  bleak  and  dismal  on  the  leafless  woods, 
The  fitful  rains  rush'd  down  in  sudden  floods. 
The  night  was  dark ;  as,  now-and-then,  the  gale 
Paused  for  a  moment, — Margaret  listen5 d,  pale  ; 
But  through  the  covert  to  her  anxious  ear, 
No  rustling  footstep  spoke  her  lover  near. 
Strange  fears  now  filled  her  breast, — she  knew  not  why ; 
She  sigh'd,  and  Bateman's  name  was  in  each  sigh. 
She  hears  a  noise, — 'tis  he — lie  comes  at  last. 
Alas !  'twas  but  the  gale  which  hurried  past; 
But  now  she  hears  a  quickening  footstep  sound, 
Lightly  it  comes,  and  nearer  does  it  bound : 
"Tis  Bateman's  self, — he  springs  into  her  arms, 
'Tis  he  that  clasps,  and  chides  her  vain  alarms. 
"  Yet  why  this  silence  ? — I  have  waited  long, 
And  the  cold  storm  has  yell'd  the  trees  among. 
And  now  thou  'rt  here  my  fears  are  fled — yet  speak, 
Why  does  tiie  salt  tear  moisten  on  thy  cheek  ? 
Say,  what  is  wrong  ?" — Now,  through  a  parting  cloud, 
The  pale  moon  peer'd  from  her  tempestuous  shroud, 
And  Bateman's  face  was  seen ; — 'twas  deadly  white, 
And  sorrow  seem'd  to  sicken  in  his  sight. 
"  Oh,  speak,  my  love  !"  again  the  maid  conjured; 
"  Why  is  thy  heart  in  sullen  woe  immured  ?  " 
He  raised  his  head,  and  thrice  essay' d  to  tell, 
Thrice  from  his  lips  the  unfinished  accents  fell; 
When  thus  at  last  reluctantly  he  broke 
His  boding  silence,  and  the  maid  bespoke : — 
"  Grieve  not,  my  love,  but  ere  the  morn  advance, 
I  on  these  fields  must  cast  my  parting  glance ; 
JFor  three  long  years,  by  cruel  fate's  command, 
I  go  to  languish  in  a  foreign  land. 
Oh,  Margaret !  omens  dire  have  met  my  view, 
Say,  when  far  distant,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true  ? 
Should  honours  tempt  thee,  and  should  riches  fee, 
Wouldst  thou  forget  thine  ardent  vows  to  me, 
And  on  the  silken  couch  of  wealth  reclined, 
Banish  thy  faithful  Bateman  from  thy  mind  ?" 
s  2 


POEMS  OF 


"  Oh !  why,"  replies  the  maid,  "  my  faith  thus  prove  P — 
Canst  thou  !  ah,  canst  thou,  then,  suspect  my  love  ? 
Hear  me,  just  God !  if,  from  my  traitorous  heart, 
My  Bateman's  fond  remembrance  e'er  shall  part, 
If,  when  he  hail  again  his  native  shore, 
He  finds  his  Margaret  true  to  him  no  more, 
May  fiends  of  hell,  and  every  power  of  dread, 
Conjoin' d,  then  drag  me  from  my  perjured  bed, 
And  hurl  me  headlong  down  these  awful  steeps, 
To  find  deserved  death  in  yonder  deeps  !"* 

Thus  spake  the  maid,  and  from  her  finger  drew 

A  golden  ring,  and  broke  it  quick  in  two ; 

One  half  she  in  her  lovely  bosom  hides, 

The  other,  trembling  to  her  love  confides. 

"  This  bind  the  vow,"  she  said,  "  this  mystic  charm 

No  future  recantation  can  disarm, 

The  rite  vindictive  does  the  fates  involve, 

No  tears  can  move  it,  no  regrets  dissolve." 

She  ceased.   The  death-bird  gave  a  dismal  o  ry, 
The  river  moan'd,  the  wild  gale  whistled  by, 
And  once  again  the  lady  of  the  night, 
Behind  a  heavy  cloud  withdrew  her  light. 
Trembling  she  viewed  these  portents  with  dLmay : 
But  gently  Bateman  kiss'd  her  fears  away : 
Yet  still  he  felt  conceal' d  a  secret  smart, 
Still  melancholy  bodings  fill'd  his  heart. 

When  to  the  distant  land  the  youth  was  sped, 

A  lonely  life  the  moody  maiden  led. 

Still  would  she  trace  each  dear,  each  well-known  walk, 

Still  by  the  moonlight  to  her  love  would  talk 

And  fancy  as  she  paced  among  the  trees, 

She  heard  his  whispers  in  the  dying  breeze. 

•  This  part  of  the  Trent  is  commonly  called  "The  Clifton 
Deeps." 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


261 


Thus  two  years  glided  on,  in  silent  grief ; 
The  third,  her  bosom  own'd  the  kind  relief; 
Absence  had  cool'd  her  love, — the  impoverish' d  flame 
"Was  dwindling  fast,  when  lo  !  the  tempter  came ; 
He  offered  wealth,  and  all  the  joys  of  life, 
And  the  weak  maid  became  another's  wife ! 

Six  guilty  months  had  mark'd  the  false  one's  crime, 
When  Bateman  hail'd  once  more  his  native  clime. 
Sure  of  her  constancy,  elate  he  came, 
The  lovely  partner  of  his  soul  to  claim. 
Light  was  his  heart,  as  up  the  well-known  way 
He  bent  his  steps — and  all  his  thoughts  were  gay. 
Oh !  who  can  paint  his  agonizing  throes, 
When  on  his  ear  the  fatal  news  arose. 
Chill' d  with  amazement, — senseless  with  the  blow, 
He  stood  a  marble  monument  of  woe. 
Till  call'd  to  all  the  horrors  of  despair, 
He  smote  his  brow,  and  tore  his  horrent  hair ; 
Then  rush'd  impetuous  from  the  dreadful  spot, 
And  sought  those  scenes  (by  memory  ne'er  forgot), 
Those  scenes,  the  witness  of  their  growing  flame, 
And  now  like  witnesses  of  Margaret's  shame. 
'Twas  night — he  sought  the  river's  lonely  shore, 
And  traced  again  their  former  wanderings  o'er. 
Now  on  the  bank  in  silent  grief  he  stood, 
And  gazed  intently  on  the  stealing  flood, 
Death  in  his  mien  and  madness  in  his  eye, 
He  watch' d  the  waters  as  they  murmur' d  by ; 
Bade  the  base  murderess  triumph  o'er  his  grave- 
Prepared  to  plunge  into  the  whelming  wave. 
Yet  still  he  stood  irresolutely  bent, 
Religion  sternly  stayed  his  rash  intent. 
He  knelt. — Cool  played  upon  his  cheek  the  wind, 
And  fann'd  the  fever  of  his  maddening  mind. 
The  willows  waved,  the  stream  it  sweetly  swept, 
The  paly  moonbeam  on  its  surface  slept, 


POEMS  OF 


And  all  was  peace : — he  felt  the  general  calm 
O'er  his  rack'd  bosom  shed  a  genial  balm : 
When  casting  far  behind  his  streaming  eye, 
He  saw  the  Grove, — in  fancy  saw  her  lie, 
His  Margaret,  lull'd  in  Germain's*  arms  to  rest, 
And  all  the  demon  rose  within  his  breast. 
Convulsive  now,  he  clench' d  his  trembling  hand, 
Cast  his  dark  eye  once  more  upon  the  land, 
Then,  at  one  spring,  he  spurn'd  the  yielding  bank, 
And  in  the  calm  deceitful  current  sank. 

Sad,  on  the  solitude  of  night,  the  sound, 

As  in  the  stream  he  plunged,  was  heard  around : 

Then  all  was  still, — the  wave  was  rough  no  more. 

The  river  swept  as  sweetly  as  before, 

The  willows  waved,  the  moonbeam  shone  serene, 

And  peace  returning  brooded  o'er  the  scene. 

Now,  see  upon  the  perjured  fair  one  hang 
Remorse's  glooms  and  never-ceasing  pang. 
Full  well  she  knew,  repentant  now  too  late, 
She  soon  must  bow  beneath  the  stroke  of  fate. 
But,  for  the  babe  she  bore  beneath  her  breast, 
The  offended  God  prolong'd  her  life  unblest. 
But  fast  the  fleeting  moments  roll'd  away, 
And  near,  and  nearer  drew  the  dreaded  day; 
That  day,  foredoom'd  to  give  her  child  the  light, 
And  hurl  its  mother  to  the  shades  of  night. 

The  hour  arrived,  and  from  the  wretched  wife 
The  guiltless  baby  struggled  into  life. — 
As  night  drew  on,  around  her  bed,  a  band 
Of  friends  and  kindred  kindly  took  their  stand ; 
In  holy  prayer  they  pass'd  the  creeping  time, 
Intent  to  expiate  her  awful  crime. 

*  Germain  is  the  traditionary  name  of  her  husband. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


263 


Their  prayers  were  fruitless. — As  the  midnight  came, 

A  heavy  sleep  oppress'd  each  weary  frame. 

In  vain  they  strove  against  the  overwhelming  load, 

Some  power  unseen  their  drowsy  lids  bestrode. 

They  slept,  till  in  the  blushing  eastern  sky 

The  bloomy  morning  oped  her  dewy  eye : 

Then  wakening  wide  they  sought  the  ravish' d  bed, 

But  lo  !  the  hapless  Margaret  was  fled ; 

And  never  more  the  weeping  train  were  doom'd 

To  view  the  false  one,  in  the  deeps  intomb'd. 

The  neighbouring  rustics  told  that  in  the  night 
They  heard  such  screams,  as  froze  them  with  affright ; 
And  many  an  infant  at  its  mother's  breast, 
Started  dismayed,  from  its  unthinking  rest. 
And  even  now,  upon  the  heath  forlorn, 
They  show  the  path,  down  which  the  fair  was  borne, 
By  the  fell  demons,  to  the  yawning  wave, 
Her  own,  and  murder' d  lover's,  mutual  grave. 

Such  is  the  tale,  so  sad,  to  memory  dear, 
Which  oft  in  youth  has  charm' d  my  listening  ear, 
That  tale,  which  bade  me  find  redoubled  sweets 
In  the  drear  silence  of  these  dark  retreats ; 
And  even  now,  with  melancholy  power, 
Adds  a  new  pleasure  to  the  lonely  hour. 
'Mid  all  the  charms  by  magic  Nature  given 
To  this  wild  spot,  this  sublunary  heaven, 
With  double  joy  enthusiast  Taney  leans 
On  the  attendant  legend  of  the  scenes. 
This  sheds  a  fairy  lustre  on  the  floods, 
And  breathes  a  mellower  gloom  upon  the  woods ; 
This,  as  the  distant  cataract  swells  around, 
Gives  a  romantic  cadence  to  the  sound : 
This,  and  the  deep'ning  glen,  the  alley  green, 
The  silver  stream,  with  sedgy  tufts  between. 
The  massy  rock,  the  wood-encompass'd  leas, 
The  broom-clad  islands,  and  the  nodding  trees, 


POEMS  OP 


.The  lengthening  vista,  and  the  present  gloom, 
The  verdant  pathway  breathing  waste  perfume ; 
These  are  thy  charms,  the  joys  which  these  impart 
Bind  thee,  blest  Clifton !  close  around  my  heart. 

Dear  native  Grove !  where'er  my  devious  track, 

To  thee  will  Memory  lead  the  wanderer  back, 

Whether  in  Arno's  polished  vales  I  stray, 

Or  where  "  Oswego's  swamps"  obstruct  the  day ; 

Or  wander  lone,  where,  wildering  and  wide, 

The  tumbling  torrent  laves  St.  Gothard's  side ; 

Or  by  old  Tejo's  classic  margent  muse, 

Or  stand  entranced  with  Pyrenean  views ; 

Still,  still  to  thee,  where'er  my  footsteps  roam, 

My  heart  shall  point,  and  lead  the  wanderer  home. 

When  splendour  offers,  and  when  Eame  incites, 

I'll  pause,  and  think  of  all  thy  dear  delights, 

Reject  the  boon,  and  wearied  with  the  change, 

Renounce  the  wish  which  first  induced  to  range  ; 

Turn  to  these  scenes,  these  well-known  scenes  once  more, 

Trace  once  again  Old  Trent's  romantic  shore, 

And  tired  with  worlds,  and  all  their  busy  ways, 

Here  waste  the  little  remnant  of  my  days. 

But,  if  the  Pates  should  this  last  wish  deny, 

And  doom  me  on  some  foreign  shore  to  die  ; 

Oh  !  should  it  please  the  world's  supernal  King, 

That  weltering  waves  my  funeral  dirge  shall  sing ; 

Or  that  my  corse  should,  on  some  desert  strand, 

Lie  stretch'd  beneath  the  Simoom's  blasting  hand ; 

Still,  though  unwept  I  find  a  stranger  tomb, 

My  sprite  shall  wander  through  this  favourite  gloom, 

Bide  on  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  leafless  grove, 

Sigh  on  the  wood-blast  of  the  dark  alcove, 

Sit,  a  lorn  spectre,  on  yon  well-known  grave, 

And  mix  its  moanings  with  the  desert  wave. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


265 


GONDOLINE: 

A  BALLAD. 

The  night  it  was  still,  and  the  moon  it  shone 

Serenely  on  the  sea, 
And  the  waves  at  the  foot  of  the  rifted  rock 

They  murmur' d  pleasantly. 

When  Gondoline  roamed  along  the  shore, 

A  maiden  full  fair  to  the  sight ; 
Though  love  had  made  bleak  the  rose  on  her  cheek, 

And  turn'd  it  to  deadly  white. 

Her  thoughts  they  were  drear,  and  the  silent  tear 

It  fill'd  her  faint  blue  eye, 
As  oft  she  heard,  in  fancy's  ear, 

Her  Bertrand's  dying  sigh. 

Her  Bertrand  was  the  bravest  youth 

Of  all  our  good  king's  men, 
And  he  was  gone  to  the  Holy  Land 

To  fight  the  Saracen. 

And  many  a  month  had  pass'd  away, 

And  many  a  rolling  year, 
But  nothing  the  maid  from  Palestine 

Could  of  her  lover  hear. 

Full  oft  she  vainly  tried  to  pierce 

The  ocean's  misty  lace ; 
Full  oft  she  thought  her  lover's  bark 

She  on  the  wave  could  trace. 

And  every  night  she  placed  a  light 

In  the  high  rock's  lonely  tower, 
To  guide  her  lover  to  the  land, 

Should  the  murky  tempest  lower. 


POEMS  OF 


But  now  despair  had  seized  her  breast, 

And  sunken  in  her  eye : 
"  Oh !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 

And  I  in  peace  will  die." 

She  wander'd  o'er  the  lonely  shore, 

The  curlew  scream' d  above, 
She  heard  the  scream  with  a  sickening  heart, 

Much  boding  of  her  love. 

Yet  still  she  kept  her  lonely  way, 

And  this  was  all  her  cry : 
"  Oh  !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 

And  I  in  peace  shall  die." 

And  now  she  came  to  a  horrible  rift 

All  in  the  rock's  hard  side, 
A  bleak  and  blasted  oak  o'erspread 

The  cavern  yawning  wide ; 

And  pendant  from  its  dismal  top 
The  deadly  night-shade  hung, 

The  hemlock,  and  the  aconite, 
Across  the  mouth  were  flung. 

And  all  within  was  dark  and  drear, 

And  all  without  was  calm, 
Yet  Gondoline  entered,  her  soul  upheld 

By  some  deep-working  charm. 

And,  as  she  enter'd  the  cavern  wide, 
The  moonbeam  gleamed  pale, 

And  she  saw  a  snake  on  the  craggy  rock,— 
It  clung  by  its  slimy  tail. 

Her  foot  it  slipp'd,  and  she  stood  aghast, 

She  trod  on  a  bloated  toad ; 
Yet  still,  upheld  by  the  secret  charm, 

She  kept  upon  her  road. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


And  now  upon  her  frozen  ear 

Mysterious  sounds  arose, 
So,  on  the  mountain's  piny  top, 

The  blustering  North-wind  blows. 

Then  furious  peals  of  laughter  loud 

Were  heard  with  thundering  sound, 

Till  they  died  away,  in  soft  decay, 
Low  whispering  o'er  the  ground. 

Yet  still  the  maiden  onward  went, 

The  charm  yet  onward  led, 
Though  each  big  glaring  ball  of  sight 

Seem'd  bursting  from  her  head. 

But  now  a  pale  blue  light  she  saw, 

It  from  a  distance  came, 
She  followed,  till  upon  her  sight, 

Burst  full  a  flood  of  flame. 

She  stood  appall'd;  yet  still  the  charm 

Upheld  her  sinking  soul, 
Yet  each  bent  knee  the  other  smote, 

And  each  wild  eye  did  roll. 

And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there, 

No  mortal  saw  before, 
And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there, 

No  mortal  shall  see  more. 

A  burning  caldron  stood  in  the  midst, 
The  flame  was  fierce  and  high, 

And  all  the  cave  so  wide  and  long, 
Was  plainly  seen  thereby. 

And  round  about  the  caldron  stout, 
Twelve  withered  witches  stood  : 

Their  waists  were  bound  with  living  snakes, 
And  their  hair  was  stiff  with  blood. 


268 


POEMS  OP 


Their  hands  were  gory,  too ;  and  red 
And  fiercely  flamed  their  eyes ; 

And  they  were  muttering  indistinct 
Their  hellish  mysteries. 

And  suddenly  they  joined  their  hands, 

And  uttered  a  joyous  cry, 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

And  now  they  stopt ;  and  each  prepared 

To  tell  what  she  had  done, 
Since  last  the  Lady  of  the  night, 

Her  waning  course  had  run. 

Behind  a  rock  stood  Gondoline, 
Thick  weeds  her  face  did  veil, 

And  she  lean'd  fearful  forwarder, 
To  hear  the  dreadful  tale. 

The  first  arose :  She  said  she'd  seen 

Rare  sport,  since  the  blind  cat  mew'd  ; 

She'd  been  to  sea,  in  a  leaky  sieve, 
And  a  jovial  storm  had  brew'd. 

She  call'd  around  the  winged  winds, 

And  raised  a  devilish  rout ; 
And  she  laugh' d  so  loud,  the  peals  were  heard 

Pull  fifteen  leagues  about. 

She  said  there  was  a  little  bark 

Upon  the  roaring  wave, 
And  there  was  a  woman  there  who'd  been 

To  see  her  husband's  grave. 

And  she  had  got  a  child  in  her  arms, 

It  was  her  only  child, 
And  oft  its  little  infant  pranks 

Her  heavy  heart  beguiled. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


269 


And  there  was  too  in  that  same  bark, 

A  father  and  his  son : 
The  lad  was  sickly,  and  the  sire 

Was  old,  and  woe-begone. 

And  when  the  tempest  waxed  strong, 
And  the  bark  conld  no  more  it  'bide, 

She  said,  it  was  jovial  fun  to  hear 
How  the  poor  devils  cried. 

The  mother  clasp' d  her  orphan  child 

Unto  her  breast,  and  wept ; 
And,  sweetly  folded  in  her  arms, 

The  careless  baby  slept. 

And  she  told  how,  in  the  shape  o'  the  wind, 

As  manfully  it  roar'd, 
She  twisted  her  hand  in  the  infant's  hair, 

And  threw  it  overboard. 

And  to  have  seen  the  mother's  pangs, 

'Twas  a  glorious  sight  to  see ; 
The  crew  could  scarcely  hold  her  down 

Erom  jumping  in  the  sea. 

The  hag  held  a  lock  of  the  hair  in  her  hand, 

And  it  was  soft  and  fair ; 
It  must  have  been  a  lovely  child, 

To  have  had  such  lovely  hair. 

And  she  said,  the  father  in  his  arms 

He  held  his  sickly  son, 
And  his  dying  throes  they  fast  arose, 

His  pains  were  nearly  done. 

And  she  throttled  the  youth  with  her  sinewy  hands 

And  his  face  grew  deadly  blue ; 
And  the  father  he  tore  his  thin  grey  hair, 

And  kiss'd  the  livid  hue. 


270 


POEMS  OF 


And  then  she  told,  how  she  bored  a  hoie 

In  the  bark,  and  it  fill'd  away ; 
And  'twas  rare  to  hear  how  some  did  swear, 

And  some  did  vow,  and  pray. 

The  man  and  woman  they  soon  were  dead,  ' 
The  sailors  their  strength  did  urge ; 

But  the  billows  that  beat  were  their  winding-sheet. 
And  the  winds  sung  their  funeral  dirge. 

She  threw  the  infant's  hair  in  the  fire, 

The  red  flame  flamed  high, 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  second  begun  :  she  said  she  had  done 
The  task  that  Queen  Hecat'  had  set  her, 

And  that  the  devil,  the  father  of  evil, 
Had  never  accomplished  a  better. 

She  said  there  was  an  aged  woman, 

And  she  had  a  daughter  fair, 
Whose  evil  habits  fill'd  her  heart 

With  misery  and  care. 

The  daughter  had  a  paramour, 

A  wicked  man  was  he, 
And  oft  the  woman,  him  against, 

Did  murmur  grievously. 

And  the  hag  had  worked  the  daughter  up 

To  murder  her  old  mother, 
That  then  she  might  seize  on  all  her  goods. 

And  wanton  with  her  lover. 

And  one  night,  as  the  old  woman 

Was  sick  and  ill  in  bed, 
And  pondering  sorely  on  the  life 

Her  wicked  daughter  led, 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


She  heard  her  footstep  on  the  floor, 

And  she  raised  her  pallid  head, 
And  she  saw  her  daughter,  with,  a  knife, 

Approaching  to  her  bed ; 

And  said,  "  My  child,  I'm  very  ill, 

I  have  not  long  to  live ; 
Now  kiss  my  cheek,  that  ere  I  die 

Thy  sins  I  may  forgive." 

And  the  murderess  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek, 
And  she  lifted  the  sharp,  bright  knife, 

And  the  mother  saw  her  fell  intent, 
And  hard  she  begged  for  life. 

But  prayers  would  nothing  her  avail, 
And  she  screamed  loud  with  fear ; 

But  the  house  was  lone,  and  the  piercing  screams 
Could  reach  no  human  ear. 

And  though  that  she  was  sick,  and  old, 

She  struggled  hard,  and  fought ; 
The  murderess  cut  three  fingers  through 

Ere  she  could  reach  her  throat. 

And  the  hag  she  held  the  fingers  up, 

The  skin  was  mangled  sore, 
And  they  all  agreed  a  nobler  deed 

Was  never  done  before. 

And  she  threw  the  fingers  in  the  fire, 

The  red  flame  flamed  high, 
And  round  about  the  caldron  stout 

They  danced  right  merrily. 

The  third  arose :  she  said  she'd  been 

To  Holy  Palestine ; 
And  seen  more  blood  in  one  short  days 

Tnan  they  had  all  seen  in  nine. 


POEMS  OF 


Now  Gondoline,  with  fearful  steps, 
Drew  nearer  to  the  flame, 

For  much  she  dreaded  now  to  hear 
Her  hapless  lover's  name. 

The  hag  related  then  the  sports 

Of  that  eventful  day, 
When  on  the  well-contested  field 

Full  fifteen  thousand  lay. 

She  said,  that  she  in  human  gore 
Above  the  knees  did  wade, 

And  that  no  tongue  could  truly  tell 
The  tricks  she  there  had  played. 

There  was  a  gallant-featured  youth , 

Who  like  a  hero  fought : 
He  kissed  a  bracelet  on  his  wrist, 

And  every  danger  sought. 

And  in  a  vassal's  garb  disguised 
Unto  the  knight  she  sues, 

And  tells  him  she  from  Britain  comes, 
And  brings  unwelcome  news. 

That  three  days  ere  she  had  embark'd, 
His  love  had  given  her  hand, 

Unto  a  wealthy  Thane : — and  thought 
Him  dead  in  holy  land. 

And  to  have  seen  how  he  did  writhe 
When  this  her  tale  she  told, 

It  would  have  made  a  wizard's  blood 
Within  his  heart  run  cold. 

Then  fierce  he  spurr'd  his  warrior  steed, 
And  sought  the  battle's  bed : 

And  soon  all  mangled  o'er  with  wounds 
He  on  the  cold  turf  bled. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


273 


And  from  his  smoking  corse,  she  tore 

His  head,  half  clove  in  two, 
She  ceased,  and  from  beneath  her  garb, 

The  bloody  trophy  drew. 

The  eyes  were  starting  from  their  socks, 

The  month  it  ghastly  grinned, 
And  there  was  a  gash  across  the  brow, 

The  scalp  was  nearly  skinned. 

'Twas  Bertram's  Head  !    "With  a  terrible  scream, 

The  maiden  gave  a  spring, 
And  from  her  fearful  hiding-place 

She  fell  into  the  ring. 

The  lights  they  fled, — the  caldron  sunk, 

Deep  thunders  shook  the  dome, 
And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  came 

Resounding  through  the  gloom. 

Insensible  the  maiden  lay 

Upon  the  hellish  ground : 
And  still  mysterious  sounds  were  heard 

At  intervals  around. 

She  woke, — she  half  arose, — and  wild, 

She  cast  a  horrid  glare, 
The  sounds  had  ceased,  the  lights  had  fled, 

And  all  was  stillness  there. 

And  through  an  awning  in  the  rock, 

The  moon  it  sweetly  shone, 
And  showed  a  river  in  the  cave 

Which  dismally  did  moan. 

The  stream  was  black,  it  sounded  deep 

As  it  rushed  the  rocks  between, 
It  offered  well,  for  madness  fired 

The  breast  of  Gondoline. 

T 


274 


POEMS  OP 


She  plunged  in,  the  torrent  moaned 
With  its  accustomed  sound 

And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  loud 
Again  rebellowed  round. 

The  maid  was  seen  no  more. — But  oft 
Her  ghost  is  known  to  glide, 

At  midnight's  silent,  solemn  hour, 
Along  the  ocean's  side. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A  SURVEY  OF  THE  HEAVENS, 

IN  THE  MORNING  BEFORE  DAYBREAK. 

Ye  many-twinkling  stars,  who  yet  do  hold 

Your  brilliant  places  in  the  sable  vault 

Of  night's  dominions  ! — Planets,  and  central  orbs 

Of  other  systems  ! — big  as  the  burning  sun, 

Which  lights  this  nether  globe, — yet  to  our  eye, 

Small  as  the  glow-worm's  lamp  ! — To  you  I  raise 

My  lowly  orisons,  while  all  bewildered, 

My  vision  strays  o'er  your  ethereal  hosts ; 

Too  vast,  too  boundless,  for  our  narrow  mind, 

Warped  with  low  prejudices,  to  infold, 

And  sagely  comprehend.    Thence  higher  soaring, 

Through  ye,  I  raise  my  solemn  thoughts  to  him ! 

The  mighty  founder  of  this  wondrous  maze, 

The  great  Creator  1  Him !  who  now  sublime 

Wrapt  in  the  solitary  amplitude 

Of  boundless  space,  above  the  rolling  spheres 

Sits  on  his  silent  throne,  and  meditates. 

The  angelic  hosts  in  their  inferior  Heaven, 
Hymn  to  their  golden  harps  his  praise  sublime, 
Repeating  loud,  "  The  Lord  our  God  is  great/' 
In  varied  harmonies. — The  glorious  sounds 
ftoll  o'er  the  air  serene — The  iEolian  spheres, 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


275 


Harping  along  their  viewless  boundaries, 

Catch  the  full  note,  and  cry,  "  The  Lord  is  great," 

Responding  to  the  Seraphim. — O'er  all, 

Erom  orb  to  orb,  to  the  remotest  verge 

Of  the  created  world,  the  sound  is  borne 

Till  the  whole  universe  is  full  of  Him. 

Oh !  His  this  heavenly  harmony  which  now 
In  fancy  strikes  upon  my  listening  ear, 
And  thrills  my  inmost  soul.    It  bids  me  smile 
On  the  vain  world,  and  all  its  bustling  cares, 
And  gives  a  shadowy  glimpse  of  future  bliss. 

Oli !  what  is  man,  when  at  ambition's  height, 
What  even  are  kings,  when  balanced  in  the  scale 
Of  these  stupendous  worlds  !  Almighty  God ! 
Thou,  the  dread  author  of  these  wond'rous  works  ! 
Say,  canst  thou  cast  on  me,  poor  passing  worm, 
One  look  of  kind  benevolence  ? — Thou  canst : 
For  thou  art  full  of  universal  love, 
And  in  thy  boundless  goodness  wilt  impart 
Thy  beams  as  well  to  me,  as  to  the  proud, 
The  pageant  insects,  of  a  glittering  hour. 

Oh !  when  reflecting  on  these  truths  sublime, 
How  insignificant  do  all  the  joys, 
The  gauds,  and  honours  of  the  world  appear ! 
How  vain  ambition !  Why  has  my  wakeful  lamp 
Outwatched  the  slow-paced  night  ? — Why  on  the  page, 
The  schoolman's  laboured  page,  have  I  employed 
The  hours  devoted  by  the  world  to  rest, 
And  needful  to  recruit  exhausted  nature  ? 
Say,  can  the  voice  of  narrow  Fame  repay 
The  loss  of  health  ?  or  can  the  hope  of  glory, 
Lend  a  new  throb  into  my  languid  heart, 
Cool,  even  now,  my  feverish,  aching  brow, 
Relume  the  fires  of  this  deep-sunken  eye, 
Or  paint  new  colours  on  this  pallid  cheek  ? 
t  2 


276 


POEMS  OF 


Say,  foolish  one— can  that  unbodied  Fame, 
For  which  thou  barterest  health  and  happiness* 
Say,  can  it  soothe  the  slumbers  of  the  grave  ? 
Give  a  new  zest  to  bliss  ?  or  chase  the  pangs 
Of  everlasting  punishment  condign  ? 
Alas  !  how  vain  are  mortal  man's  desires! 
How  fruitless  his  pursuits  !   Eternal  God ! 
Guide  thou  my  footsteps  in  the  way  of  truth, 
And  oh  !  assist  me  so  to  live  on  earth, 
That  I  may  die  in  peace,  and  claim  a  place 
In  thy  high  dwelling. — All  but  this  is  lolly, 
The  vain  illusions  of  deceitful  life. 


XilNES  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  SPOKEN  BY  A  LOYER  AT 
THE  GRAVE  OF  HIS  MISTRESS. 

OCCASIONED  BY  A  SITUATION  IX  A  ROMAXC*. 

Mary,  the  moon  is  sleeping  on  thy  grave, 

And  on  the  turf  thy  lover  sad  is  kneeling, 

The.  big  tear  in  his  eye. — Mary,  awake, 

From  thy  dark  house  arise,  and  bless  his  sight 

On  the  pale  moonbeam  gliding.    Soft,  and  low, 

Pour  on  the  silver  ear  of  night  thy  tale, 

Thy  whispered  tale,  of  comfort,  and  of  love, 

To  soothe  thy  Edward's  lorn,  distracted  soul, 

And  cheer  his  breaking  heart. — Come,  as  thou  didst, 

"When  o'er  the  barren  moors  the  night-wind  howl'd, 

And  the  deep  thunders  shook  the  ebon  throne 

Of  the  startled  night. — Oh  !  then,  as  lone  reclining, 

I  listened  sadly  to  the  dismal  storm,  ^ 

Thou,  on  the  lambent  lightnings  wild  careering, 

Didst  strike  my  moody  eye  : — dead  pale  thou  wert, 

Yet  passing  lovely. — Thou  didst  smile  upon  me, 

And  oh !  thy  voice  it  rose  so  musical, 

Betwixt  the  hollow  pauses  of  the  storm, 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


27^ 


That  at  the  sound  the  winds  forgot  to  rave, 
And  the  stern  demon  of  the  tempest,  charm'd 
Sunk  on  his  rocking  throne,  to  still  repose, 
Locked  in  the  arms  of  silence. 

Spirit  of  her 
My  only  love ! — Oh  !  now  again  arise, 
And  let  once  more  thine  aery  accents  fall 
Soft  on  my  listening  ear.    The  night  is  calm, 
The  gloomy  willows  wave  in  sinking  cadence 
With  the  stream  that  sweeps  below.    Divinely  swelling 
On  the  still  air,  the  distant  waterfall 
Mingles  its  melody ; — and  high,  above, 
The  pensive  empress  of  the  solemn  night, 
Fitful,  emerging  from  the  rapid  clouds, 
Shows  her  chaste  face,  in  the  meridian  sky. 
No  wicked  elves  upon  the  Warlock-knoll 
Dare  now  assemble  at  their  mystic  revels. 
It  is  a  night,  when,  from  their  primrose  beds, 
The  gentle  ghosts  of  injured  innocents 
Are  known  to  rise,  and  wander  on  the  breeze, 
Or  take  their  stand  by  the  oppressor's  couch, 
And  strike  grim  terror  to  his  guilty  soul. 
The  spirit  of  my  love  might  now  awake, 
And  hold  its  'customed  converse. 

Mazy,  lo ! 

Thy  Edward  kneels  upon  thy  verdant  grave, 
And  calls  upon  thy  name. — The  breeze  that  blows 
On  his  wan  cheek,  will  soon  sweep  over  him, 
In  solemn  music,  a  funereal  dirge, 
Wild  and  most  sorrowful. — His  cheek  is  pale, 
The  worm  that  preyed  upon  thy  youthful  bloom, 
It  cankered  green  on  his. — Now  lost  he  stands, 
The  ghost  of  what  he  was,  and  the  cold  dew 
Which  bathes  his  aching  temples,  gives  sure  omen 
Of  speedy  dissolution. — Mary,  soon 
Thy  love  will  lay  his  pallid  die  :k  to  thine, 
And  sweetly  will  he  sleep  with  thee  in  death. 


POEMS  OF 


M Y  STUDY. 

A  LETTER  IN   HUDIBRASTIC  VERSE. 

You  bid  me,  Ned,  describe  the  place 
Where  I,  one  of  the  rhyming  race, 
Pursue  my  studies  con  amore, 
And  wanton  with  the  muse  in  glory. 

Well,  figure  to  your  senses  straight, 

Upon  the  house's  topmost  height, 

A  closet,  just  six  feet  by  four, 

With  white-washed  walls,  and  plaster  floors 

So  noble  large,  'tis  scarcely  able 

To  admit  a  single  chair  and  table : 

And  (lest  the  muse  should  die  with  cold) 

A  smoky  grate  my  fire  to  hold : 

So  wondrous  small,  'twould  much  it  pose 

To  melt  the  ice-drop  on  one's  nose ; 

And  yet  so  big.  it  covers  o'er 

Full  half  the  spacious  room  and  more. 

A  window  vainly  stuffed  about, 
To  keep  November's  breezes  out, 
So  crazy,  that  the  panes  proclaim, 
That  soon  they  mean  to  leave  the  frame. 

My  furniture,  I  sure  may  crack — 

A  broken  chair  without  a  back ; 

A  table,  wanting  just  two  legs, 

One  end  sustained  by  wooden  pegs  ; 

A  desk — of  that  I  am  not  fervent, 

The  work  of,  sir,  your  humble  servant, 

(Who,  though  I  say  't,  am  no-such  fumbler ;) 

A  glass  decanter  and  a  tumbler, 

From  which,  my  night-parch^  throat  I  lave, 

Luxurious,  with  the  limpid  wave. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

A  chest  of  drawers,  in  antique  sections, 

And  sawed  by  me,  in  alJ  directions ; 

So  small,  sir,  that  whoever  views  'em, 

Swears  nothing  but  a  doll  could  use  'em. 

To  these,  if  you  will  add  a  store 

Of  oddities  upon  the  floor, 

A  pair  of  globes,  electric  balls, 

Scales,  quadrants,  prisms,  and  cobbler's  awls, 

And  crowds  of  books,  on  rotten  shelves, 

Octavos,  folios,  quartos,  twelves ; 

I  tiink,  dear  Ned,  you  curious  clog, 

You'll  have  my  earthly  catalogue. 

But  stay, — I  nearly  had  left  out 

My  bellows  destitute  of  snout; 

Anc  on  the  walls, — Good  Heavens  !  why  there 

I've  such  a  load  of  precious  ware, 

Of  leads,  and  coins,  and  silver  medals, 

And  organ  works,  and  broken  pedals, 

(Tori  was  once  a  building  music, 

Thoigh  soon  of  that  employ  I  grew  sick), 

And  skeletons  of  laws  which  shoot 

All  oit  of  one  primordial  root ; 

That  you,  at  such  a  sight,  would  swear 

Confision's  self  had  settled  there. 

Then  stands,  just  by  a  broken  sphere, 

A  Citero  without  an  ear, 

A  ne3k,  on  which  by  logic  good 

I  know  for  sure  a  head  once  stood ; 

Jut  who  it  was  the  able  master, 

lad  moulded  in  the  mimic  plaster, 

Yhether  'twas  Pope,  or  Coke,  or  Burn, 

Inever  yet  could  justly  leam : 

lat  knowing  well,  that  any  head 

I  made  to  answer  for  the  dead, 

(^nd  sculptors  first  their  faces  frame, 

Aid  after  pitch  upon  a  name, 

for  think  it  aught  of  a  misnomer 

T>  christen  Chaucer's  busto,  Homer, 


POEMS  OP 


Because  they  both  have  beards,  which  you  know 
Will  mark  them  well  from  Joan,  and  Juno,) 
Eor  some  great  man,  I  could  not  tell 
But  Neck  might  answer  just  as  well, 
So  perched  it  up,  all  in  a  row 
With  Chatham  and  with  Cicero. 

Then  all  around  in  just  degree, 
A  range  of  portraits  you  may  see, 
Of  mighty  men,  and  eke  of  women  / 
Who  are  no  whit  inferior  to  men. 

With  these  fair  dames,  and  heroes  rounS, 

I  call  my  garret  classic  ground. 

For  though  confined,  'twill  well  contaii 

The  ideal  nights  of  Madam  Brain. 

No  dungeon's  walls,  no  cell  confined, 

Can  cramp  the  energies  of  mind ! 

Thus,  though  my  heart  may  seem  so  snail, 

I've  friends  and  'twill  contain  them  al ; 

And  should  it  e'er  become  so  cold 

That  these  it  will  no  longer  hold, 

No  more  may  heaven  her  blessings  gye, 

I  shall  not  then  be  fit  to  live. 


TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 

Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire ! 
Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 

Was  nursed  in  whirling  storms 

And  cradled  in  the  winds. 

\  . 

Thee,  when  young  spring  first  question'd  wintr  s  sway, 
And  dared  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 

Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 

To  mark  his  victory. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
Serene,  thou  openest  to  the  nipping  gale, 

Unnoticed  and  alone, 

Thy  tender  elegance. 

So  Virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
Of  chill  adversity,  in  some  lone  walk 

Of  life,  she  rears  her  head 

Obscure  and  unobserved ; 

While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows* 
Chastens  her  spotless  parity  of  breast, 

And  hardens  her  to  bear 

Serene  the  ills  of  life. 


282 


POEMS  OP 


SONNETS. 


SONNET  1. 

TO  THE  RIVER  TRENT.  WRITTEN  ON  RECOVERY  FROM  SICKNESS. 

Once  more,  O  Trent  !  along  thy  pebbly  marge 

A  pensive  invalid,  reduced  and  pale, 
From  the  close  sick-room  newly  let  at  large, 
Woos  to  his  wan-worn  cheek  the  pleasant  gale. 
Oh !  to  his  ear  how  musical  the  tale 

Which  fills  with  joy  the  throstle's  little  throat ! 
And  all  the  sounds  which  on  the  fresh  breeze  sail, 

How  wildly  novel  on  his  senses  float ! 
It  was  on  this,  that  many  a  sleepless  night, 

As,  lone,  he  watched  the  taper's  sickly  gleam, 
And  at  his  casement  heard,  with  wild  affright, 

The  owl's  dull  wing,  and  melancholy  scream, 
On  this  he  thought,  this,  this  his  sole  desire, 
Thus  once  again  to  hear  the  warbling  woodland  choir. 


SONNET  II. 

Give  me  a  cottage  on  some  Cambrian  wild, 

Where,  far  from  cities,  I  may  spend  my  days : 
And,  by  the  beauties  of  the  scene  beguiled, 

May  pity  man's  pursuits,  and  shun  his  ways. 
While  on  the  rock  I  mark  the  browsing  goat, 

List  to  the  mountain  torrent's  distant  noise, 
Or  the  hoarse  bittern's  solitary  note, 

I  shall  not  want  the  world's  delusive  joys ; 
But,  with  my  little  scrip,  my  book,  my  lyre, 

Shall  think  my  lot  complete,  nor  covet  more ; 
And  when,  with  time,  shall  wane  the  vital  fire, 

I'll- raise  my  pillow  on  the  desert  shore, 
And  lay  me  down  to  rest  where  the  wild  wave 
Shall  make  sweet  music  o'er  my  lonely  grave. 


HENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 


283 


SONNET  III.* 

BUPPOSED  TO  HAVE  BEEN  ADDRESSED  BY  A  FEMALE  LUNATIC 
TO  A  LADY. 

Lady,  thou  weepest  for  the  Maniac's  woe, 

And  thou  art  fair,  and  thou,  like  me  art  young, 
Oh  may  thy  bosom  never,  never  know 

The  pangs  with  which  my  wretched  heart  is  wrung. 
I  had  a  mother  once — a  brother  too — 

(Beneath  yon  yew  my  father  rests  his  head :) 
I  had  a  lover  once, — and  kind,  and  true, 

But  mother,  brother,  lover,  all  are  fled ! 
Yet,  whence  the  tear,  which  dims  thy  lovely  eye  ? 

Oh  !  gentle  lady — not  for  me  thus  weep, 
The  green  sod  soon  upon  my  breast  will  lie, 

And  soft  and  sound,  will  be  my  peaceful  sleep. 
Go  thou,  and  pluck  the  roses  while  they  bloom — 

My  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  silent  tomb. 


SONNET  IV. 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  THE  UNHAPPY  POET  DERMODY,  II*  A 
STORM,  WHILE  ON  BOARD  A  SHIP  IN  HIS  MAJESTY'S  SERVICE. 

Lo !  o'er  the  welkin  the  tempestuous  clouds 
Successive  fly,  and  the  loud-piping  wind 

Rocks  the  poor  sea-boy  on  the  dripping  shrouds, 
While  the  pale  pilot  o'er  the  helm  reclined, 

Lists  to  the  changeful  storm :  and  as  he  plies 
His  wakeful  task,  he  oft  bethinks  him,  sad, 
Of  wife,  and  little  home,  and  chubby  lad, 

And  the  half-strangled  tear  bedews  his  eyes ; 

I,  on  the  deck,  musing  on  themes  forlorn, 
View  the  drear  tempest,  and  the  yawning  deep, 
Nought  dreading  in  the  green  sea's  caves  to  sleep, 

Eor  not  for  me  shall  wife,  or  children  mourn, 

And  the  wild  winds  will  ring  my  funeral  knell, 

Sweetly  as  solemn  peal  of  pious  passing-bell. 

*  This  quatorzain  had  its  rise  from  an  elegant  sonnet,  "  oeea* 
sioned  by  seeing  a  young  female  lunatic,"  written  by  Mrs.  Lofft, 
and  published  in  the  "  Monthly  Mirror." 


284 


POEMS  OP 


SONNET  V. 

THE  WINTER  TRAVELLER. 

God  help  thee,  Traveller,  on  thy  journey  far ; 
The  wind  is  bitter  keen, — the  snow  o'erlays 
The  hidden  pits,  and  dangerous  hollow  ways, 
And  darkness  will  involve  thee. — No  kind  star 
To-night  will  guide  thee,  Traveller, — and  the  war 
Of  winds  and  elements  on  thy  head  will  break, 
And  in  thy  agonizing  ear  the  shriek, 
Of  spirits  howling  on  their  stormy  car, 
Will  often  ring  appalling — I  portend 
A  dismal  night — and  on  my  wakeful  bed 
Thoughts,  Traveller,  of  thee,  will  fill  my  head, 
And  him,  who  rides  where  wind  and  waves  contend, 
And  strives,  rude  cradled  on  the  seas,  to  guide 
His  lonely  bark  through  the  tempestuous  tide. 


SONNET  VI. 

BY  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

[This  Sonnet  was  addressed  to  the  author  of  this  volume,  and  was 
occasioned  by  several  little  quatorzains,  misnomered  sonnets, 
which  he  published  in  the  "  Monthly  Mirror."  He  begs  leave  to 
return  his  thanks  to  the  much  respected  writer  for  the  permission 
so  politely  granted  to  insert  it  here,  and  for  the  good  opinion  he 
has  been  pleased  to  express  of  his  productions.] 

Ye,  whose  aspirings  court  the  muse  of  lays, 
"  Severest  of  those  orders  which  belong, 
Distinct  and  separate,  to  Delphic  song," 

Why  shun  the  Sonnet's  undulating  maze  ? 

And  why  its  name,  boast  of  Petrarchian  days, 

Assume,  its  rules  disown*  d  ?  whom  from  the  throng 

The  Muse  selects,  their  ear  the  charm  obeys 
Of  its  full  harmony  : — they  fear  to  wrong 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


285 


The  Sonnet,  by  adorning  with  a  name 

Of  that  distinguished  import,  lays,  though  sweet, 
Yet  not  in  magic  texture  taught  to  meet 

Of  that  so  varied  and  peculiar  frame. 

Oh  think  !  to  vindicate  its  genuine  praise 
Those  it  beseems,  whose  Lyre  a  favouring  impulse  sways. 


SONNET  VII. 

BECANTATORY,  IN  REPLY  TO  THE  FOREGOING  ELEGANT  ADMONITION  . 

Let  the  sublimer  Muse,  who,  wrapt  in  night, 
Rides  on  the  raven  pennons  of  the  storm, 
Or  o'er  the  field,  with  purple  havoc  warm, 

Lashes  her  steeds,  and  sings  along  the  fight ; 

Let  her,  whom  more  ferocious  strains  delight, 
Disdain  the  plaintive  Sonnet's  little  form, 
And  scorn  to  its  wild  cadence  to  conform, 

The  impetuous  tenour  of  her  hardy  fiight. 

But  me,  far  lowest  of  the  sylvan  train, 

Who  wake  the  wood-nymphs  from  the  forest  shade 
With  wildest. song; — Me,  much  behoves  thy  aid 

Of  mingled  melody,  to  grace  my  strain, 

And  give  it  power  to  please,  as  soft  it  flows 

Through  the  smooth  murmurs  of  thy  frequent  close. 


SONNET  VIII. 

ON  HEARING  THE  SOUNDS  OF  AN  JEOLIAN  HARP. 

So  ravishingly  soft  noon  the  tide 
Of  the  enfuriate  gust,  it  did  career, 
It  might  have  soothed  its  rugged  charioteer, 

And  sunk  him  to  a  zephyr ; — then  it  died, 

Melting  in  melody : — and  I  descried 

Borne  to  some  wizard  stream,  the  form  appear 
Of  Druid  sage,  who  on  the  far-off  ear 

Poured  his  lone  song,  to  which  the  surge  replied : 


236 


POEMS  OF 


Or  thought  I  heard  the  hapless  pilgrim's  knell, 
Lost  in  some  wild  enchanted  forest's  bounds, 
By  unseen  beings  sung ;  or  are  these  sounds, 
Such  as,  'tis  said,  at  night  are  known  to  swell 
By  startled  shepherd  on  the  lonely  heath, 
Keeping  his  night-watch  sad,  portending  death  ? 


SONNET  IX. 

What  art  thou,  Mighty  One  !  and  where  thy  seat  ? 

Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the  lands. 

And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands, 
The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet. 
Stern  on  thy  dark- wrought  car  of  cloud,  and  wind, 

Thou  guidest  the  northern  storm  at  night's  dead  nooiij 

Or  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  Monsoon, 
Disturb' st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Incl. 
In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 

Dost  thou  repose  ?  or  in  the  solitude 
Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 

Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger's  hungry  brood  ? 
Vain  thought !  the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace, 
Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundless  space. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


A  BALLAD, 

Be  hushed,  be  hushed,  ye  bitter  winds, 

Ye  pelting  rains  a  little  rest ; 
Lie  still,  lie  still,  ye  busy  thoughts, 

That  wring  with  grief  my  aching  breast. 

Oh,  cruel  was  my  faithless  love, 
To  triumph  o'er  an  artless  maid : 

Oh,  cruel  was  my  faithless  love, 

To  leave  the  breast  by  him  betrayed. 

When  exiled  from  my  native  home, 
He  should  have  wiped  the  bitter  tear : 

i\ror  left  me  faint  and  lone  to  roam, 
A  heart-sick  weary  wanderer  here. 

My  child  moans  sadly  in  my  arms, 
The  winds  they  will  not  let  it  sleep ; 

Ah,  little  knows  the  hapless  babe, 
What  makes  its  wretched  mother  weeo ! 

Now  lie  thee  still,  my  infant  dear, 
I  cannot  bear  thy  sobs  to  see, 

jlarsh  is  thy  father,  little  one, 
And  never  will  he  shelter  thee. 

Oh,  that  I  were  but  in  my  grave, 
And  winds  were  piping  o'er  me  loud, 

And  thou,  my  poor,  my  orphan  babe, 
Wert  nestling  in  thy  mother's  shroud 


POEMS  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE, 


THE  LULLABY 

A  FEMALE  CONVICT  TO  HER  CHILD,  THE  NIGHT  PREVIOUS 
TO  EXECUTION. 

*Sleep,  baby  mine,  exikercliieft  on  my  bosom, 
Thy  cries  they  pierce  again  my  bleeding  breast ; 

Sleep,  baby  mine,  not  long  thon'lt  have  a  mother, 
To  lull  thee  fondly  in  her  arms  to  rest. 

Baby,  why  dost  thou  keep  this  sad  complaining, 
Long  from  mine  eyes  have  kindly  slumbers  fled ; 

Hush,  hush,  my  babe,  the  night  is  quickly  waning, 
And  I  would  fain  compose  my  aching  head. 

Poor  wayward  wretch  !  and  who  will  heed  thy  weoping, 
TVlien  soon  an  outcast  on  the  world  thou'lt  be : 

Who  then  will  soothe  thee,  when  thy  mother's  sleeping, 
In  her  low  grave  of  shame  and  infamy  ! 

Sleep,  baby  mine. — To-morrow  I  must  leave  thee, 
And  I  would  snatch  an  interval  of  rest ; 

Sleep  these  last  moments,  ere  the  laws  bereave  thee, 
Eor  never  more  thou'lt  press  a  mother's  breast. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  has  a  poem  beginning,  "  Sleep,  baby  rune." 


POEMS, 


WRITTEN  DURING,  OR  SHORTLY  AFTER,  THL  PUBLICATION 
OF 

CLIFTON  GEO  YE. 


ODE, 

ADDRESSED  TO  H.  FUSELI,  ESQ.,  R.A.,  ON  SEEING  ENGRAVINGS 
FROM  niS  DESIGNS. 

Mighty  Magician !  who  on  Torneo's  brow, 

When  snllen  tempests  wrap  the  throne  of  night, 
Art  wont  to  sit  and  catch  the  gleam  of  light 

That  shoots  athwart  the  gloom  opaqne  below ; 

And  listen  to  the  distant  death-shriek  long 

Prom  lonely  mariner  foundering  in  the  deep, 
"Which  rises  slowly  up  the  rocky  steep, 

While  the  weird  sisters  weave  the  horrid  song : 
Or  when  along  the  liquid  sky 
Serenely  chant  the  orbs  on  high, 
Dost  love  to  sit  in  musing  trance 
And  mark  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
(While  far  below  the  fitful  oar 
Flings  its  faint  pauses  on  the  steepy  shore,) 
And  list  the  music  of  the  breeze, 
That  sweeps  by  fits  the  bending  seas ; 
And  often  bears  with  sudden  swell 
The  shipwrecked  sailor's  funeral  knell, 
By  the  spirits  sung  who  keep 
Their  night  watch  on  the  treacherous  deep, 
And  guide  the  wakeful  helmsman's  eye 
To  Helice  in  northern  sky ; 


290 


POEMS  OF 


And  there  upon  the  rock  inclined 
With  mighty  visions  tilPst  the  mind, 
Such  as  bound  in  magic  spell 
*Him  who  grasped  the  gates  of  hell, 
And  bursting  Pluto's  dark  domain 
Held  to  the  day  the  Terrors  of  his  reign. 

Genius  of  Horror  and  romantic  awe, 
Whose  eye  explores  the  secrets  of  the  deep. 
Whose  power  can  bid  the  rebel  fluids  creep, 

Can  force  the  inmost  soul  to  own  its  law ; 
Who  shall  now,  sublimest  spirit, 
Who  shall  now  thy  wand  inherit, 
Prom  liimf  thy  darling  child  who  best 
Thy  shuddering  images  exprest  ? 
Sullen  of  soul  and  stern  and  proud, 
His  gloomy  spirit  spurned  the  crowd, 
And  now  he  lays  his  aching  head 

In  the  dark  mansion  of  the  silent  dead. 

Mighty  Magician !  long  thy  wand  has  lain 
Buried  beneath  the  unfathomable  deep ; 
And  oh !  for  ever  must  its  efforts  sleep, 
May  none  the  mystic  sceptre  e'er  regain : 
Oh  yes,  'tis  his  ! — Thy  other  son 
He  throws  thy  dark-wrought  Tunic  on, 
Euesslin  waves  thy  wand, — again  they  rise, 
Again  thy  wildering  forms  salute  our  ravished  eyes. 
Him  didst  thou  cradle  on  the  dizzy  steep 

Where  round  his  head  the  volley' d  lightnings  filings 
And  the  lou4  winds  that  round  his  pillow  rang 
Wroo'd  the  stern  infant  to  the  arms  of  sleep. 

Or  on  the  highest  top  of  Teneriffe, 
Seated  the  fearless  Boy,  and  bade  him  look 
Where  far  below  the  weather-beaten  skill 
On  the  gulf  bottom  of  the  ocean  strook. 


*  Dante. 


f  Hid. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


291 


Thou  mark' (1st  him  drink  with  ruthless  ear 
The  death-sob,  and  disdaining  rest, 
Thou  sawest  how  danger  fired  his  breast , 

And  in  his  young  hand  couch5 d  the  visionary  spear. 
Then  Superstition  at  thy  call, 
She  bore  the  boy  to  Odin's  Hall, 
And  set  before  his  awe-struck  sight 
The  savage  feast  and  spectred  fight ; 
And  summoned  from  his  mountain  tomb 
The  ghastly  warrior  son  of  gloom, 
His  fabled  runic  rhymes  to  sing 
While  fierce  Hresvelger  flapped  his  wing ; 
Thou  showedst  the  trains  the  shepherd  sees, 
Laid  on  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Which  on  the  mists  of  evening  gleam 
Or  crowd  the  foaming  desert  stream ; 
Lastly,  her  storied  hand  she  waves 
And  lays  him  in  Florentian  caves ; 
There  milder  fables  lovelier  themes 
Enwrap  his  soul  in  heavenly  dreams, 
There  pity's  lute  arrests  his  ear, 
And  draws  the  half -reluctant  tear ; 
And  now  at  noon  of  night  he  roves 
Along  the  embowering  moonlight  groves, 
And  as  from  many  a  cavern' d  dell 
The  hollow  wind  is  heard  to  swell, 
He  thinks  some  troubled  spirit  sighs, 
And  as  upon  the  turf  he  lies, 
Where  sleeps  the  silent  beam  of  night, 
He  sees  below  the  gliding  sprite, 
And  hears  in  Fancy's  organs  sound 
Aerial  music  warbling  round. 

Taste  lastly  comes  and  smoothes  the  whole,, 
And  breathes  her  polish  o'er  his  soul ; 
Glowing  with  wild,  yet  chastened  heat, 
The  wonderous  work  is  now  complete. 
v  2 


292 


POEMS  OF 


The  Poet  dreams  : — The  shadow  flies, 
And  fainting  fast  its  image  dies. 
But  lo  !  the  Painter's  magic  force 
Arrests  the  phantom's  fleeting  course  j 
It  lives — it  livp.s — the  canvas  glows, 
And  tenfold  vigour  o'er  it  flows. 

The  Bard  beholds  the  work  aclrieved, 
And  as  he  sees  the  shadow  rise, 
Sublime  before  his  wandering  eyes, 

Starts  at  the  image  his  own  mind  conceived. 


ODE, 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  EARL  OF  CARLISLE,  K  rt; 

Retired,  remote  from  human  noise, 

A  humble  Poet  dwelt  serene, 
His  lot  was  lowly,  yet  his  joys 

Were  manifold  I  ween. 
He  laid  him  by  the  brawling  brook 
At  eventide  to  ruminate, 

He  watched  the  swallow  swimming  round, 

And  mused,  in  reverie  profound, 
On  wayward  man's  unhappy  state, 
And  pondered  much,  and  paused  on  deeds  of  ancient  data 

II.  T. 

w  Oh,  'twas  not  always  thus,"  he  cried, 
"  There  was  a  time  when  genius  claimed 

Respect  from  even  towering  pride, 
Nor  hung  her  head  ashamed : 

But  now  to  wealth  alone  we  bow, 
The  titled,  and  the  rich  alone, 

Are  honoured,  while  meek  merit  pines, 

On  penury's  wretched  couch  reclines, 
Unheeded  in  his  dying  moan. 

As,  overwhelmed  with  want  and  woe.  he  sinks  unknown, 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


III.  I. 

Yet  was  the  Muse  not  always  seen 
In  poverty's  dejected  mien, 
Not  always  did  repining  rue, 
And  misery  her  steps  pursue. 
Time  was,  when  nobles  thought  their  titles  graced, 
By  the  sweet  honours  of  poetic  bays, 
When  Sidney  sung  his  melting  song, 
When  Sheffield  joined  the  harmonious  throng, 
And  Lyttleton  attuned  to  love  his  lays. 
Those  days  are  gone — alas,  for  ever  gone  ! 

No  more  our  nobles  love  to  grace 
Their  brows  with  anadems,  by  genius  won, 
But  arrogantly  deem  the  Muse  as  base ; 
How  differently  thought  the  sires  of  this  degenerate  race!" 

I.  2. 

Thus  sang  the  minstrel : — still  at  eve 

The  upland's  woody  shades  among 
In  broken  measures  did  he  grieve, 

With  solitary  song. 
And  still  his  shame  was  aye  the  same, 

Neglect  had  stung  him  to  the  core ; 
And  he,  with  pensive  joy  did  love 
To  seek  the  still  congenial  grove, 

And  muse  on  all  his  sorrows  o'er, 
And  vow  that  he  would  join  the  abjured  world  no  more. 

II.  2. 

But  human  vows,  how  frail  they  be ! 

Tame  brought  Carlisle  unto  his  view. 
And  all  amazed,  he  thought  to  see 

The  Augustan  age  anew. 
Filled  with  wild  rapture,  up  he  rose, 
No  more  he  ponders  on  the  woes, 
Which  erst  he  felt  that  forward  goes, 

Begrets  he'd  sunk  in  impotence, 
And  hails  the  ideal  day  of  virtuous  eminence. 


294 


POEMS  OF 


III.  2. 

All !  silly  man,  yet  smarting  sore, 
With  ills  which  in  the  world  he  bore, 
Again  on  futile  hope  to  rest. 
An  nnsnbstantial  prop  at  best, 
And  not  to  know  one  swallow  makes  no  snmmer  1 

Ah !  soon  he'll  find  the  brilliant  gleam, 
Which  flashed  across  the  hemisphere, 
IUumining  the  darkness  there, 

Was  bnt  a  simple  solitary  beam, 
While  all  aronnd  remained  in  customed  night. 

Still  leaden  ignorance  reigns  serene, 
In  the  false  court's  delusive  height, 

And  only  one  Carlisle  is  seen, 
To  illume  the  heavy  gloom  with  pure  and  steady  light, 


DESCRIPTION  OF  A  SUMMER'S  EVE. 

Down  the  sultry  arc  of  day, 

The  burning  wheels  have  urged  their  way, 

And  Eve  along  the  western  skies 

Sheds  her  intermingling  dyes. 

Down  the  deep,  the  miry  lane, 

Creeking  comes  the  empty  wain, 

And  Driver  on  the  shaft-horse  sits, 

Whistling  now  and  then  by  fits  ; 

And  oft,  with  his  accustomed  call, 

Urging  on  the  sluggish  Ball. 

The  barn  is  still,  the  master's  gone, 

And  Thresher  puts  his  jacket  on, 

While  Dick,  upon  the  ladder  tall, 

Nails  the  dead  kite  to  the  wall. 

Here  comes  shepherd  Jack  at  last, 

He  has  penned  the  sheep-cote  fast, 

Eor  'twas  but  two  nights  before, 

A  lamb  was  eaten  on  the  moor : 


• 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


295 


His  empty  wallet  Hover  carries, 
Nor  for  J ack,  when  near  home,  tarries. 
With  lolling  tongne  he  rnns  to  try, 
If  the  horse-trongh  be  not  dry, 
The  milk  is  settled  in  the  pans, 
And  snpper  messes  in  the  cans ; 
In  the  hovel  carts  are  wheeled, 
And  both  the  colts  are  drove  a-fieli ; 
The  horses  are  all  bedded  np, 
And  the  ewe  is  with  the  tnp. 
The  snare  for  Mister  Fox  is  set, 
The  leaven  laid,  the  thatching  wet, 
And  Bess  has  slinked  away  to  talk 
With  Roger  in  the  holly-walk. 

Now  on  the  settle  all,  but  Bess, 
Are  set  to  eat  their  supper  mess ; 
And  little  Tom,  and  roguish  Kate, 
Are  swinging  on  the  meadow  gate. 
Now  they  chat  of  various  things, 
Of  taxes,  ministers,  and  kings, 
Or  else  tell  all  the  village  news, 
How  madam  did  the  'squire  refuse  ; 
How  parson  on  his  tithes  was  bent, 
And  landlord  oft  distrained  for  rent. 
Thus  do^they  talk,  till  in  the  sky 
The  pale  eyed  moon  is  mounted  high, 
And  from  the  alehouse  drunken  Ned 
Had  reeled — then  hasten  all  to  bed. 
The  mistress  sees  that  lazy  Kate 
The  happing  coal  on  kitchen  grate 
Has  laid — while  master  goes  throughout 
Sees  shutters  fast,  the  mastiff  out, 
The  candles  safe,  the  hearths  all  clear, 
And  nought  from  thieves  or  fire  to  fear ; 
Then  both  to  bed  together  creep, 
And  join  the  general  troop  of  sleep. 


296 


POEMS  OF 


TO  CONTEMPLATION. 

Come,  pensive  sage,  who  lovest  to  dweL 
In  some  retired  Lapponian  cell, 
Where  far  from  noise,  and  riot  rude, 
Resides  sequestered  solitude. 
Come,  and  o'er  my  longing  soul 
Throw  thy  dark  and  russet  stole, 
And  open  to  my  duteous  eyes, 
The  volume  of  thy  mysteries. 

I  will  meet  thee  on  the  hill, 

Where,  with  printless  footstep  still 

The  morning  in  her  buskin  grey, 

Springs  upon  her  eastern  way ; 

While  the  frolic  zephyrs  stir, 

Playing  with  the  gossamer, 

And,  on  ruder  pinions  borne, 

Shake  the  dew-drops  from  the  thorn. 

There,  as  o'er  the  fields  we  pass 

Brushing  with  hasty  feet  the  grass, 

We  will  startle  from  her  nest, 

The  lively  lark  with  speckled  breast, 

And  hear  the  floating  clouds  among 

Her  gale-transported  matin  song, 

Or  on  the  upland  stile  embowered, 

With  fragrant  hawthorn  snowy  flowered, 

Will  sauntering  sit,  and  listen  still, 

To  the  herdsman's  oaten  quill, 

Wafted  from  the  plain  below ; 

Or  the  heifer's  frequent  low ; 

Or  the  milkmaid  in  the  grove, 

Singing  of  one  that  died  for  love. 

Or  when  the  noontide  heats  oppress, 

We  will  seek  the  dark  recess, 

Where,  in  the  embowered  translucent  stream, 

The  cattle  shun  the  sultry  beam, 

And  o'er  us,  on  the  marge  reclined, 

The  drowsy  fly  her  horn  shall  wind, 


Contemplation. — P.  296. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

While  echo,  from  her  ancient  oak, 
Shall  answer  to  the  woodman's  stroke ; 
Or  the  little  peasant's  song, 
Wandering  lone  the  glens  among, 
His  artless  lip  with  berries  died, 
And  feet  through  ragged  shoes  descried* 

But,  oh,  when  evening's  virgin  queen 
Sits  on  her  fringed  throne  serene, 
And  mingling  whispers  rising  near, 
Steal  on  the  still  reposing  ear ; 
While  distant  brooks  decaying  round, 
Augment  the  mixed  dissolving  sound, 
And  the  zephyr  flitting  by, 
Whispers  mystic  harmony, 
We  will  seek  the  woody  lane, 
By  the  hamlet,  on  the  plain, 
Where  the  weary  rustic  nigh, 
Shall  whistle  his  wild  melody, 
And  the  croaking  wicket  oft 
Shall  echo  from  the  neighbouring  croft ; 
And  as  we  trace  the  green  path  lone, 
With  moss  and  rank  weeds  overgrown, 
We  will  muse  on  pensive  lore, 
Till  the  full  soul  brimming  o'er, 
Shall  in  our  upturned  eyes  appear, 
Embodied  in  a  quivering  tear. 
Or  else,  serenely  silent,  sit 
By  the  brawling  rivulet, 
Which  on  its  calm  unruffled  breast, 
Rears  the  old  mossy  arch  impressed, 
That  clasps  its  secret  stream  of  glass, 
Half  hid  in  shrubs  and  waving  grass, 
The  wood-nymph's  lone  secure  retreat, 
Unpressed  by  fawn  or  sylvan' s  feet, 
We'll  watch  in  Eve's  ethereal  braid, 
The  rich  vermilion  slowly  fade ; 
Or  catch,  faint  twinkling  from  afar, 
The  first  glimpse  of  the  eastern  star. 


298 


POEMS  OF 


Fair  vesper,  mildest  lamp  of  light,, 
That  heralds  in  imperial  night : 
Meanwhile,  npon  our  wondering  ear, 
Shall  rise,  though  low,  yet  sweetly  clear,. 
The  distant  sounds  of  pastoral  lute, 
Invoking  soft  the  sober  suit 
Of  dimmest  darkness — fitting  well 
With  love,  or  sorrow's  pensive  spell, 
(So  erst  did  music's  silver  tone, 
~^rake  slumbering  chaos  on  his  throne.) 
And  haply,  then,  with  sudden  swell, 
Shall  roar  the  distant  curfew  bell, 
While  in  the  castle's  mouldering  tower. 
The  hooting  owl  is  heard  to  pour 
Her  melancholy  song,  and  scare 
Dull  silence  brooding  in  the  air. 
Meanwhile  her  dusk  and  slumbering  car, 
Black-suited  night  drives  on  from  far, 
And  Cynthia's  'merging  from  her  rear, 
Arrests  the  waxing  darkness  drear. 
And  summons  to  her  silent  call 
Sweeping  in  their  airy  pall, 
The  unshrived  ghosts,  in  fairy  trance, 
To  join  her  moonshine  morrice-dance ; 
While  around  the  mystic  ring, 
The  shadowy  shapes  elastic  spring. 
Then  with  a  passing  shriek  they  fly, 
Wrapt  in  mists  along  the  sky, 
And  oft  are  by  the  shepherd  seen, 
In  his  lone  night  watch  on  the  green. 

Then,  hermit,  let  us  turn  our  feet, 
To  the  low  Abbey's  still  retreat, 
Embowered  in  the  distant  glen, 
Ear  from  the  haunts  of  busy  men. 
Where,  as  we  sit  upon  the  tomb, 
The  glow-worm's  light  may  gild  the  gloom, 
And  show  to  fancy's  saddest  eye, 
Where  some  lost  hero's  ashes  lie. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


29& 


And  oh,  as  through  the  mouldering  arch, 

With  ivy  filled  and  weeping  larch, 

The  night  gale  whispers  sadly  clear, 

Speaking  dear  things  to  fancy's  ear, 

We'll  hold  communion  with  the  shade, 

Of  some  deep-wailing  ruined  maid — 

Or  call  the  ghost  of  Spencer  down, 

To  tell  of  woe  and  fortune's  frown ; 

And  bid  us  cast  the  eye  of  hope, 

Beyond  this  bad  world's  narrow  scope. 

Or  if  these  joys,  to  us  denied, 

To  linger  by  the  forest's  side ; 

Or  in  the  meadow  or  the  wood, 

Or  by  the  lone  romantic  flood ; 

Let  us  in  the  busy  town, 

When  sleep's  dull  streams  the  people  drown, 

Ear  from  drowsy  pillows  flee, 

And  turn  the  church's  massy  key ; 

Then,  as  through  the  painted  glass, 

The  moon's  pale  beams  obscurely  pass 

And  darkly  on  the  trophied  wall, 

Her  faint  ambiguous  shadows  fall ; 

Let  us,  while  the  faint  winds  wail, 

Through  the  long  reluctant  aisle, 

As  we  pace  with  reverence  meet, 

Count  the  echoings  of  our  feet ; 

While  from  the  tombs,  with  confess'd  breathy 

Distinct  responds  the  voice  of  death. 

If  thou,  mild  sage,  wilt  condescend, 

Thus  on  my  footsteps  to  wttend, 

To  thee  my  lonely  lamp  shall  burn, 

By  fallen  Genius'  sainted  urn ! 

As  o'er  the  scroll  of  Time  I  pour, 

And  sagely  spell  of  ancient  lore. 

Till  I  can  rightly  guess  of  all 

That  Plato  could  to  memory  call, 

And  scan  the  formless  views  of  things 

Or  with  old  Egypt's  fettered  kings, 


soo 


POEMS  OP 


Arrange  the  mystic  trains  that  shine 
In  night's  high  philosophic  mine ; 
And  to  thy  name  shall  e'er  belong 
The  honours  of  undying  song. 


ODE  TO  THE  GENIUS  OF  ROMANCE. 

Oh,  thou  who  in  my  early  youth, 
When  fancy  wore  the  garb  of  truth, 
Wert  wont  to  win  my  infant  feet, 
To  some  retired,  deep-fabled  seat, 
Where  by  the  brooklet's  secret  tide, 
The  midnight  ghost  was  known  to  glide ; 
Or  lay  me  in  some  lonely  glade, 
In  native  Sherwood's  forest  shade, 
Where  Robin  Hood,  the  outlaw  bold, 
Was  wont  his  sylvan  courts  to  hold ; 
And  there  as  musing  deep  I  lay, 
Would  steal  my  little  soul  away, 
And  all  thy  pictures  represent, 
Of  siege  and  solemn  tournament ; 
Or  bear  me  to  the  magic  scene, 
Where  clad  in  greaves  and  gaberdine, 
The  warrior  knight  of  chivalry, 
Made  many  a  fierce  enchanter  flee ; 
And  bore  the  high-born  dame  away, 
Long  held  the  fell  magician's  prey. 
Or  oft  would  tell  the  shuddering  tale 
Of  murders,  and  of  goblins  pale, 
Haunting  the  guilty  baron's  side, 
(Whose  floors  with  secret  blood  were  dyed,) 
Which  o'er  the  vaulted  corridore, 
On  stormy  nights  was  heard  to  roar, 
By  old  domestic,  wakened  wide 
By  the  angry  winds  that  chide. 
Or  else  the  mystic  tale  would  tell, 
Of  Grecnsleeve,  or  of  Blue-Beard  fell. 
*         *         *  * 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

TH£  SAVOYARD'S  RETURN. 
I. 

Oh,  yonder  is  the  well-known  spot, 

My  dear,  my  long-lost  native  home ! 
Oh  !  welcome  is  yon  little  cot, 

Where  I  shall  rest,  no  more  to  roam ! 
Oh !  I  have  travelled  far  and  wide, 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband. 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
Tc  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 

II. 

Of  distant  climes  the  false  report 

It  lured  me  from  my  native  land ; 
It  bade  me  rove — my  sole  support 

My  cymbals  and  my  saraband. 
The  woody  dell,  the  hanging  rock, 

The  chamois  skipping  o'er  the  heights ; 
The  plain  adorned  with  many  a  flock, 

And,  oh  !  a  thousand  more  delights, 
That  grace  yon  dear  beloved  retreat, 
Have  backward  won  my  weary  £eet. 

in. 

Now  safe  returned,  with  wandering  tired, 

No  more  my  little  home  I'll  leave ; 
And  many  a  tale  of  what  I've  seen 

Shall  while  away  the  winter's  eve. 
Oh !  I  have  wandered  far  and  wide, 

O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land ; 
Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 

And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband ; 
But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail, 
To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 


302 


POEMS  OF 


LINES 

Written  Impromptu,  on  reading  the  following  passage  in  Mr. 
Capel  Lofft's  beautiful  and  interesting  preface  to  Nathaniel 
BloomjieMs  poems,  just  published. — "  It  has  a  mixture  of  the 
sportive,  which  deepens  the  impression  of  its  melancholy  close. 
I  could  have  wished,  as  I  have  said  in  a  short  note,  the  conclu- 
sion had  been  otherwise.  The  sours  of  life  less  offend  my  taste 
than  its  sweets  delight  it." 

Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and  say,  cc  Be  still," 
Bid  the  wild  lawless  winds  obey  thy  will ; 
Preach  to  the  storm,  and  reason  with  despair, 
But  tell  not  Misery's  son  that  life  is  fair  I 

Thou,  who  in  Plenty's  lavish  lap  hast  rolled, 
And  every  year  with  new  delight  hast  told, 
Thou,  who  recumbent  on  the  lacquered  barge, 
Hast  dropt  down  joy's  gay  stream  of  pleasant  marge, 
Thou  mayst  extol  life's  calm,  untroubled  sea, 
The  storms  of  misery  never  burst  on  thee  I 

Go  to  the  mat,  where  squalid  want  reclines, 
Go  to  the  shade  obscure,  where  Merit  pines ; 
Abide  with  him  whom  penury's  charms  control, 
And  bind  the  rising  yearnings  of  his  soul, 
Survey  his  sleepless  couch,  and  standing  there, 
Tell  the  poor  pallid  wretch,  that  life  is  fair  I 

Press  thou  the  lonely  pillow  of  his  head, 
And  ask  why  sleep  his  languid  eyes  has  fled : 
Mark  his  dewed  temples,  and  his  half-shut  eye, 
His  trembling  nostrils,  and  his  deep-drawn  sigh, 
His  mutt'ring  mouth,  contorted  with  despair, 
And  ask  if  Genius  could  inhabit  there. 

Oh  yes !  that  sunken  eye  with  fire  once  gleamed, 
And  rays  of  light  from  its  full  circlet  streamed ; 
But  now  Neglect  has  stung  him  to  the  core, 
And  Hope's  wild  raptures  thrill  his  breast  no  more 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


303 


Domestic  Anguish  winds  Lis  vitals  round, 
And  added  Grief  compels  ham  to  the  ground. 
Lo !  o'er  his  manly  form,  decayed,  and  wan, 
The  shades  of  death  with  gradual  steps  steal  on ; 
And  the  pale  mother  pining  to  decay, 
Weeps  for  her  boy,  her  wretched  life  away. 

Go,  child  of  Fortune !  to  his  early  grave, 
Where  o'er  his  head  obscure  the  rank  weeds  wave ; 
Behold  the  heart-wrung  parent  lay  her  head 
On  the  cold  turf,  and  ask  to  share  his  bed. 
Go,  child  of  Eortune,  take  thy  lesson  there, 
And  tell  us  then  that  life  is  wondrous  fair  I 

Yet,  Lofft,  in  thee,  whose  hand  is  still  stretched  forth, 
T'  encourage  genius,  and  to  foster  worth ; 
On  thee,  th'  unhappy^  firm,  unfailing  friend, 
?Tis  just  that  every  blessing  should  descend : 
'Tis  just  that  life  to  thee  should  only  show, 
Her  fairer  side  but  little,  mixed  with  woe. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

Sad  solitary  Thought,  who  keep'st  thy  vigils, 

Thy  solemn  vigils,  in  the  sick  man's  mind ; 

Communing  lonely  with  his  sinking  soul, 

And  musing  on  the  dubious  glooms  that  lie 

In  dim  obscurity  before  him, — thee, 

Wrapt  in  thy  dark  magnificence,  I  call 

At  this  still  midnight  hour,  this  awful  season, 

When  on  my  bed,  in  wakeful  restlessness, 

I  turn  me  wearisome ;  while  all  around, 

All,  all  save  me,  sink  in  forgetfulness ; 

I  only  wake  to  watch  the  sickly  taper 

Which  lights  me  to  my  tomb. — Yes,  'tis  the  hand 

Of  death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals, 

Slow  sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 


POEMS  OP 


My  moments  now  are  few — The  sand  of  life' 

Ebbs  fastly  to  its  finish. — Yet  a  little, 

And  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall 

Silent,  unseen,  unnoticed,  nnlamented. 

Come  then,  sad  thought,  and  let  ns  meditate, 

While  meditate  we  may. — We  have  now 

But  a  small  portion  of  what  men  call  time 

To  hold  communion ;  for  even  now  the  knife, 

The  separating  knife,  I  feel  divide 

The  tender  bond  that  binds  my  soul  to  earth. 

Yes,  I  must  die — I  feel  that  I  must  die ; 

And  though  to  me  has  life  been  dark  and  dreary, 

Though  hope  for  me  has  smiled  but  to  deceive, 

And  disappointment  still  pursued  her  blandishments 

Yet  do  I  feel  my  soul  recoil  within  me 

As  I  contemplate  the  dim  gulf  of  death, 

The  shuddering  void,  the  awful  blank — futurity. 

Aye,  I  had  planned  full  many  a  sanguine  scheme 

Of  earthly  happiness, — romantic  schemes, 

And  fraught  with  loveliness ;  and  it  is  hard 

To  feel  the  hand  of  death  arrest  one's  steps, 

Throw  a  chill  blight  o'er  all  one's  budding  hopes, 

And  hurl  one's  soul  untimely  to  the  shades, 

Lost  in  the  gaping  gulf  of  black  oblivion. 

Eifty  years  hence,  and  who  will  hear  of  Henry  ? 

Oh !  none ; — another  busy  brood  of  beings 

Will  shoot  up  in  the  interim,  and  none 

Will  hold  him  in  remembrance.    I  shall  sink, 

As  sinks  a  stranger  in  the  crowded  streets 

Of  busy  London ; — Some  short  bustle's  caused, 

A  few  inquiries,  and  the  crowds  close  in, 

And  all's  forgotten. — On  my  grassy  grave 

The  men  of  future  times  will  careless  tread, 

And  read  my  name  upon  the  sculptured  stone ; 

Nor  will  the  sound,  familiar  to  their  ears, 

Recall  my  vanished  memory. — I  did  hope 

Eor  better  things  ! — I  hoped  I  should  not  leave 

The  earth  without  a  vestige ; — Eate  decrees 


HENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 


805 


It  shall  be  otherwise,  and  I  submit. 
Henceforth,  oh  world,  no  more  of  thy  desires ! 
No  more  of  hope !  the  wanton  vagrant  Hope  ! 
I  abjure  all. — Now  other  cares  engross  me, 
And  my  tired  soul  with  emulative  haste, 
Looks  to  its  God,  and  prunes  its  wings  for  Heaven. 


PAST OEAL  SONG. 

Come,  Anna  !  come,  the  morning  dawns, 

Eaint  streaks  of  radiance  tinge  the  skies ; 
Come,  let  us  seek  the  dewy  lawns, 
And  watch  the  early  lark  arise  ; 
While  nature  clad  in  vesture  gay, 
Hails  the  loved  return  of  day. 

Our  flocks  that  nip  the  scanty  blade 

Upon  the  moor,  shall  seek  the  vale ; 
And  then,  secuie  beneath  the  shade, 
We'll  listen  to  the  throstle's  tale ; 
And  watch  the  silver  clouds  above, 
As  o'er  the  azure  vault  they  rove. 

Come,  Anna !  come,  and  bring  thy  lute, 
That  with  its  tones,  so  softly  sweet, 
In  cadence  with  my  mellow  flute, 
We  may  beguile  the  noon-tide  heat ; 
While  near  the  mellow  bee  shall  join, 
To  raise  a  harmony  divine. 

And  then  at  eve,  when  silence  reigns, 

Except  when  heard  the  beetle's  hum ; 
We'll  leave  the  sober-tinted  plains, 

To  these  sweet  heights  again  we'll  come ; 
And  thou  to  thy  soft  lute  shalt  play 
A  solemn  vesper  to  departing  day. 
x 


S06 


POEMS  OF 


ODE  TO  MIDNIGHT. 

Season  of  general  rest,  whose  solemn  still 
Strikes  to  the  trembling  heart  a  fearful  chill, 

But  speaks  to  philosophic  souls  delight : 
Thee  do  I  hail,  as  at  my  casement  high, 
My  candle  waning  melancholy  by, 

I  sit  and  taste  the  holy  calm  of  night. 

Yon  pensive  orb  that  through  the  ether  sails, 
And  gilds  the  misty  shadows  of  the  vales, 

Hanging  in  thy  dull  rear  her  vestal  flame ; 
To  her,  while  all  around  in  sleep  recline, 
Wakeful  I  raise  my  orisons  divine, 

And  sing  the  gentle  honours  of  her  name ; 

While  Fancy  lone  o'er  me  her  votary  bends, 
To  lift  my  soul  her  fairy  visions  sends, 

And  pours  upon  my  ear  her  thrilling  song ; 
And  Superstition's  gentle  terrors  come, 
Bee,  see  yon  dim  ghost  gliding  through  the  gloom ! 

See  round  yon  churchyard  elm  what  spectres  throng 

Meanwhile  I  tune,  to  some  romantic  lay, 
My  flageolet— and  as  I  pensive  play, 

The  sweet  notes  echo  o'er  the  mountain  scene : 
The  traveller  late  journeying  o'er  the  moors, 
Hears  them  aghast, — (while  still  the  dull  owl  pours 

Her  hollow  screams  each  dreary  pause  between).. 

Till  in  the  lonely  tower  he  spies  the  light, 
Now  faintly  flashing  on  the  glooms  of  night, 

Where  I,  poor  muser,  my  lone  vigils  keep ; 
And  'mid  the  dreary  solitude  serene, 
Cast  a  much-meaning  glance  upon  the  scene, 

And  raise  my  mournful  eye  to  Heaven  and  weep* 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


307 


ODE  TO  THOUGHT. 

WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 
I. 

Hence  away,  vindictive  Thought ! 

Thy  pictures  are  of  pain ; 
The  visions  through  thy  dark  eye  caught, 
They  with  no  gentle  charms  are  fraught, 
So  prithee  back  again. 
I  would  not  weep, 
I  wish  to  sleep, 
Then  why,  thou  busy  foe,  with  me  thy  vigils  keep  ? 

ii. 

Why  dost  o'er  bed  and  couch  recline  ? 

Is  this  thy  new  delight  ? 
Pale  visitant,  it  is  not  thine 
To  keep  thy  sentry  through  the  mine, 
The  dark  vault  of  the  night : 
'Tis  thine  to  die, 
While  o'er  the  eye, 
The  dews  of  slumber  press,  and  waking  sorrows  fly: 

hi. 

Go  thou  and  bide  with  him  who  guides 

Kis  bark  through  lonely  seas ; 
And  as,  reclining  on  his  elm, 
Sadly  he  marks  the  starry  realm, 
To  him  thou  mayst  bring  ease ; 
But  thou  to  me 
Art  misery, 

So  prithee,  prithee  plume  thy  wings  and  from  my  pillow  ifo 
x  2 


308 


FOEMS  OP 


IV. 

And  Memory,  pray  what  art  thou  ? 

Art  thou  of  pleasure  born  ? 
Does  bliss  untainted  from  thee  flow  ? 
The  rose  that  gems  thy  pensive  brow, 
Is  it  without  a  thorn  ? 
With  all  thy  smiles, 
And  witching  wiles, 
Yet  not  unfrequent  bitterness  thy  mournful  sway  defiles. 


The  drowsy  night-watch  has  forgot 

To  call  the  solemn  hour ; 
Lull'd  by  the  winds  he  slumbers  deep, 
While  I  in  vain,  capricious  sleep, 
Invoke  thy  tardy  power ; 
And  restless  lie, 
With  unclosed  eye, 
And  count  the  tedious  hours  as  slow  they  minute  by. 


G  E  N  I  U  S, 

AN  ODE. 

L  1. 

Many  there  be  who,  through  the  vale  of  life, 

With  velvet  pace,  unnoticed,  softly  go, 
While  jarring  discord's  inharmonious  strife 

Awakes  them  not  to  woe. 
By  them  unheeded,  carking  care, 
Green-eyed  grief,  and  dull  despair ; 
Smoothly  they  pursue  their  way, 

With  even  tenour,  and  with  equal  breath ; 
Alike  through  cloudy,  and  through  sunny  day, 

Then  sink  in  peace  to  deatiu 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


309 


II.  1. 

But  ah !  a  few  there  be  whom  griefs  devour, 

And  weeping  woe,  and  disappointment  keen, 
Repining  penury,  and  sorrow  sour, 

And  self-consuming  spleen. 
And  these  are  Genius'  favourites  :  these 
Know  the  thought-throned  mind  to  please, 
And  from  her  fleshy  seat  to  draw 

To  realms  where  Fancy's  golden  orbits  roll, 
Disdaining  all  but  'wildering  rapture's  law, 

The  captivated  soul. 

in.  1. 

Genius,  from  thy  starry  throne, 

High  above  the  burning  zone, 

In  radiant  robe  of  light  arrayed, 

Oh  hear  the  plaint  by  thy  sad  favourite  made, 

His  melancholy  moan. 
He  tells  of  scorn,  he  tells  of  broken  vows, 

Of  sleepless  nights,  of  anguish-ridden  days, 
Pangs  that  his  sensibility  uprouse 

To  curse  his  being,  and  his  thirst  for  praise. 
Thou  gavest  to  him,  with  treble  force  to  feel, 

The  sting  of  keen  neglect,  the  rich  man's  scorn, 
And  what  o'er  all  does  in  his  soul  preside 

Predominant,  and  tempers  him  to  steel, 
His  high  indignant  pride. 

I.  2. 

Lament  not  ye,  who  humbly  steal  through  life, 

That  Genius  visits  not  your  lowly  shed ; 
For  ah,  what  woes  and  sorrows  ever  rife, 

Distract  his  hapless  head  ! 
For  Mm  awaits  no  balmy  sleep, 
He  wakes  all  night,  and  wakes  to  weep ; 
Or,  by  his  lonely  lamp  he  sits, 

At  solemn  midnight,  when  the  peasant  sleeps, 
In  feverish  study,  and  in  moody  fits 

His  mournful  vigils  keei)s. 


310 


POEMS  OF 


II.  2. 

And,  oh !  for  what  consumes  his  watchful  oil  ? 

Eor  what  does  thus  he  waste  life's  fleeting  breath  ? 
'Tis  for  neglect  and  penury  he  doth  toil, 

'Tis  for  untimely  death. 
Lo  !  where,  dejected,  pale,  he  lie?, 
Despair  depicted  in  his  eyes, 
He  feels  the  vital  flame  decrease, 

He  sees  the  grave,  wide  yawning  for  its  prey, 
Without  a  friend  to  soothe  his  soul  to  peace, 

And  cheer  the  expiring  ray. 

in.  2. 

■By  Sulmo's  bard  of  mournful  fame, 
By  gentle  Ot way's  magic  name, 
By  him,  the  youth,  who  smiled  at  death, 
And  rashly  dared  to  stop  his  vital  breath, 

Will  I  thy  pangs  proclaim ; 
For  still  to  misery  closely  thou'rt  allied, 
Though  gaudy  pageants  glitter  by  thy  side, 

And  far  resounding  fame. 
Vvrhat  though  to  thee  the  dazzled  millions  bow, 
And  to  thy  posthumous  merit  bend  them  low ; 
Though  unto  thee  the  monarch  looks  with  awe, 
And  thou,  at  thy  flashed  car,  dost  nations  draw, 
Yet  ah !  unseen  behind  thee  fly 

Corroding  anguish,  soul-subduing  pain, 
And  discontent  that  clouds  the  fairest  sky : 
A  melancholy  train. 

Yes,  Genius,  thee  a  thousand  cares  await, 

Mocking  thy  derided  state  ; 

Thee,  chill  Adversity  will  still  attend, 

Before  whose  face  flies  fast  the  summer's  friend, 
And  leaves  thee  all  forlorn ; 
While  leaden  Ignorance  rears  her  head  and  laughs, 

And  fat  Stupidity  shakes  his  jolly  sides, 


HENRY  lURKE  WHITE. 


And  while  the  cup  of  affluence  he  quaffs 

With  bee-eyed  wisdom,  Genius  derides, 
Who  toils,  and  every  hardship  doth  outbrave, 
To  gain  the  meed  of  praise,  when  he  is  mouldering  in 
grave. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ODE  TO  THE  MOON. 
I. 

Mild  orb  who  floatest  through  the  realm  of  night, 

A  pathless  wanderer  o'er  a  lonely  wild ; 
Welcome  to  me  thy  soft  and  pensive  light, 

Which  oft  in  childhood  my  lone  thoughts  beguiled. 
Now  doubly  dear  as  o'er  my  silent  seat, 
Nocturnal  study's  still  retreat, 
It  casts  a  mournful  melancholy  gleam, 
And  through  my  lofty  casement  weaves, 
Dim  through  the  vine's  encircling  leaves, 
An  intermingled  beam. 

ii. 

These  feverish  dews  that  on  my  temples  hang, 

Tins  quivering  lip,  these  eyes  of  dying  flame ; 
These  the  dread  signs  of  many  a  secret  pang, 

These  are  the  meed  of  him  who  pants  for  fame  ! 
Pale  Moon,  from  thoughts  like  these  divert  my  soul : 

Lowly  I  kneel  before  thy  shrine  on  high ; 
My  lamp  expires  ; — beneath  thy  mild  control, 

These  restless  dreams  are  ever  wont  to  fly. 

Come,  kindred  mourner,  in  my  breast, 
Soothe  these  discordant  tones  to  rest, 

And  breathe  the  soul  of  peace ; 
Mild  visitor,  I  feel  thee  here, 
It  is  not  pain  that  brings  this  tear, 

Eor  thou  hast  bid  it  cease, 


POEMS  OF 

Oli !  many  a  year  lias  passed  away, 
Since  I  beneath  thy  fairy  ray, 
Attuned  my  infant  reed ; 
When  wilt  thou,  Time,  those  days  restore^ 
Those  happy  moments  now  no  more, 

*         #         *  * 
When  on  the  lake's  damp  marge  I  lay, 

And  marked  the  northern  meteor's  dance  ; 
Eland  Hope  and  Eaney,  ye  were  there, 
To  inspirate  my  trance. 

Twin  sisters,  faintly  now  ye  deign 
Your  magic  sweets  on  me  to  shed, 
In  vain  your  powers  arc  now  essayed 
To  chase  superior  pain. 

And  art  thou  fled,  thou  welcome  orb  ?. 

So  swiftly  pleasure  flies ; 
So  to  mankind,  in  darkness  lost, 

The  beam  of  ardour  dies, 
Wan  Moon,  thy  nightly  task  is  done, 
And  now,  encurtained  in  the  main* 

Thou  sinkest  into  rest ; 
"Hut  I,  in  vain,  on  thorny  bed, 
S.iall  woo  the  god  of  soft  repose- 
s' ♦  ♦  9 


FRAGMENT. 

Oh  !  thou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train, 

Consumption!  silent  cheater  of  the  eye ; 
Thou  comest  not  robed  in  agonizing  pain, 

Nor  mark'st  thy  course  with  Death's  delusive  dye. 
But  silent  and  unnoticed  thou  dost  lie : 

O'er  life's  soft  springs  thy  venom  dost  diffuse, 
And,  while  thou  givest  new  lustre  to  the  eye, 

While  o'er  the  cheek  are  spread  health's  ruddy  hues, 
E'en  then  life's  little  rest  thy  cruel  power  subdues. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


313 


Oft  I've  beheld  thee  in  the  glow  of  youth, 
Hid  'neath  the  blushing  roses  which  there  bloomed ; 

And  dropt  a  tear,  for  then  thy  cankering  tooth 
I  knew  would  never  stay,  till,  all  consumed, 

In  the  cold  vault  of  death  he  were  entombed. 

But  oh !  what  sorrow  did  I  feel,  as,  swift, 

Insidious  ravager,  I  saw  thee  fly 
Through  fair  Lucina's  breast  of  whitest  snow, 

Preparing  swift  her  passage  to  the  sky. 
Though  still  intelligence  beamed  in  the  glance, 

The  liquid  lustre  of  her  fine  blue  eye  ; 
Yet  soon  did  languid  listlessness  advance, 
And  soon  she  calmly  sunk  in  death's  repugnant  trance. 

Even  when  her  end  was  swiftly  drawing  near, 
And  dissolution  hovered  o'er  her  head ; 

Even  then  so  beauteous  did  her  form  appear, 
That  none  who  saw  her  but  admiring  said, 
Sure  so  much  beauty  never  could  be  dead. 

Yet  the  dark  lash  of  her  expressive  eye, 

Bent  lowly  down  upon  the  languid  

3  *  * 


SH 


POEMS  OF 


SONNETS. 


TO  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 

Lofpt,  unto  thee,  one  tributary  song, 
The  simple  Muse,  admiring,  fain  would  bring ; 

She  longs  to  lisp  thee  to  the  listening  throng, 
And  with  thy  name  to  bid  the  woodlands  ring. 

Fain  would  she  blazon  all  thy  virtues  forth, 
Thy  warm  philanthropy,  thy  justice  mild, 

Would  say  how  thou  didst  foster  kindred  worth, 
And  to  thy  bosom  snatched  misfortune's  child : 
#   Firm  she  would  paint  thee,  with  becoming  zeal, 
Upright,  and  learned,  as  the  Pylian  sire, 
Would  say  how  sweetly  thou  couldst  sweep  the  lyre, 

And  show  thy  labours  for  the  public  weal, 
Ten  thousand  virtues  tell  with  joys  supreme, 
But  ah !  she  shrinks  abashed  before  the  arduous  theme 


TO  THE  MOON. 

WBITTEN  IN  NOVEMBER. 

Sublime,  emerging  from  the  misty  verge 
Of  the  horizon  dim,  thee,  Moon,  I  hail, 
As  sweeping  o'er  the  leafless  grove,  the  gale 

Seems  to  repeat  the  year's  funereal  dirge. 

Now  Autumn  sickens  en  ins  languid  sight, 
And  failing  leaves  bestrew  the  wanderer's  way, 

Now  unto  thee,  pale  arbitress  of  night, 
With  double  joy  my  homage  do  I  pay. 
"When  clouds  disguise  the  glories  of  the  day, 

And  stern  November  sheds  her  boisterous  blight, 
Flow  doubly  sweet  to  mark  the  moony  ray 

Shoot  through  the  mist  from  the  ethereal  height, 
And,  still  unchanged,  back  to  the  memory  bring 
The  smiles  Favonian  of  life's  earliest  spring. 


EEXRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


315 


TYRITTEX  AT  THE   GRAVE   OF  A  FRIEND. 

Fast  from  the  West  the  fading  day-streaks  fly, 

And  ebon  night  assumes  her  solemn  sway ; 
Yet  here  alone,  unheeding  time,  I  lie, 

And  o'er  my  friend  still  pour  the  plaintive  lay. 
Oh !  'tis  not  long  since,  George,  with  thee  I  woo'd 

The  maid  of  musings  by  yon  moaning  wave ; 
And  hailed  the  moon's  mild  beam,  which  now  renewed 

Seems  sweetly  sleeping  on  thy  silent  grave ! 
The  busy  world  pursues  its  boisterous  way, 

The  noise  of  revelry  still  echoes  round ; 
Yet  I  am  sad  while  all  beside  is  gay ; 

Yet  still  I  weep  o'er  thy  deserted  mound. 
Oh !  that  like  thee  I  might  bid  sorrow  cease, 
And  'neath  the  grecn-sward  sleep — the  sleep  of  peace. 


TO  MISFORTUNE. 

Misfortune,  I  am  young, — my  chin  is  bare, 

And  I  have  wondered  much  when  men  have  told 
How  youth  was  free  from  sorrow  and  from  care, 

That  thou  shouldst  dwell  with  me,  and  leave  the  old. 
Sure  dost  not  like  me ! — Shrivelled  hag  of  hate, 

My  phiz,  and  thanks  to  thee,  ,  is  sadly  long ; 

I  am  not  either,  Beldame,  over  strong ; 
Nor  do  I  wish  at  all  to  be  thy  mate, 
For  thou,  sweet  Fury,  art  my  utter  hate. 
Nay,  shake  not  tlius  thy  miserable  pate ; 
I  am  yet  young,  and  do  not  like  thy  face ; 
And  lest  thou  shouldst  resume  the  wild-goose  chaee, 
I'll  tell  thee  something  all  thy  heat  to  assuage, 
 Thou  wilt  not  hit  my  fancy  in  my  age. 


316 


POEMS  OF 


As  thus  oppressed  with  many  a  heavy  care, 
(Though  young  yet  sorrowful),  I  turn  my  feet 
To  the  dark  woodland, — longing  much  to  greet 
The  form  of  peace,  if  chance  she  sojourn  there ; 
Deep  thought  and  dismal,  verging  to  despair, 

Eills  my  sad  breast ; — and  tired  with  this  vain  coil,. 
I  shrink  dismayed  before  life's  upland  toil. 
And  as  amid  the  leaves  the  evening  air, 
Whispers  still  melody, — I  think  ere  long, 

When  1  no  more  can  hear,  these  woods  will  speak 
And  then  a  sad  smile  plays  upon  my  cheek, 
And  mournful  fantasies  upon  me  throng, 
And  I  do  ponder  with  most  strange  delight, 
On  the  calm  slumbers  of  the  dead  man's  nia-ht. 


TO  APRIL, 

Emblem  of  life !  see  changeful  April  sail 
In  varying  vest  along  the  shadowy  skies, 
Now,  bidding  Summer's  softest  zephyrs  rise, 
Anon,  recalling  Winter's  stormy  gale, 
And  pouring  from  the  cloud  her  sudden  hail ; 

Then,  smiling  through  the  tear  that  dims  her  eyes„ 
WThile  Iris  with  her  braid  the  welkin  dyes, 
Promise  of  sunshine,  not  so  prone  to  fail. 
So,  to  us  sojourners  in  life's  low  vale, 
The  smiles  of  Portune  natter  to  deceive, 
While  still  the  Pates  the  web  of  Misery  weave- 
So  Hope  exultant  spreads  her  aery  sail, 
And  from  the  present  gloom,  the  soul  conveys, 
To  distant  summers,  and  far  happier  days. 


HENRY  KIRK.E  WHITE. 


317 


Ye  unseen  spirits,  whose  wild  melodies, 
At  evening  rising  slow,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
Steal  on  the  musing  poet's  pensive  ear, 

As  by  the  wood-spring  stretched  supine  he  lies ; 

When  he  who  now  invokes  you,  low  is  laid, 
His  tired  frame  resting  on  the  earth's  cold  bed ; 

Hold  ye  your  nightly  vigils  o'er  his  head, 
And  chant  a  dirge  to  his  reposing  shade ! 

Wor  he  was  wont  to  love  your  madrigals  ; 
And  often  by  the  haunted  stream  that  laves 
The  dark  sequestered  woodland's  inmost  caves, 

W ould  sit  and  listen  to  the  dying  falls, 

Till  the  full  tear  would  quiver  in  his  eye, 

And  his  big  heart  would  heave  with  mournful  ecstasy. 


TO  A  TAPER. 

*Tis  midnight. — On  the  globe  dead  slumber  sits, 

And  all  is  silence — in  the  hour  of  sleep  ; 
Save  when  the  hollow  gust,  that  swells  by  fits, 

In  the  dark  wood  roars  fearfully  and  deep. 
I  wake  alone  to  listen  and  to  weep, 

To  watch,  my  taper,  thy  pale  beacon  burn ; 
And,  as  still  memory  does  her  vigils  keep, 

To  think  of  days  that  never  can  return. 
By  thy  pale  ray  I  raise  my  languid  head, 

My  eye  surveys  the  solitary  gloom ; 
And  the  sad  meaning  tear,  unmixt  with  dread, 

Tells  thou  dost  light  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Like  thee  I  wane ; — like  thine  my  life's  last  ray 
Will  fade  in  loneliness,  unwept,  away. 


318 


POEMS  OF 


Yes,  'twill  be  over  soon. — This  sickly  dream 

Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  feverish  brain ; 
And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  redeem 

Prom  this  wild  region  of  unvaried  pain. 
Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  before, — 

Yon  landscape  smile, — yon  golden  harvest  grow,' — 
Yon  sprightly  lark  on  mounting  wing  will  soar, 

When  Henry's  name  is  heard  no  more  below. 
I  sigh  when  all  my  youthful  friends  caress, 

They  laugh  in  health,  and  future  evils  brave ; 
Them  shall  a  wife  and  smiling  children  bless, 

While  I  am  mouldering  in  my  silent  grave. 
God  of  the  just, — Thou  gavest  the  bitter  cup ;. 
I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up. 


TO  CONSUMPTION. 

Gently,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head, 
Consumption,  lay  thine  hand ! — let  me  decay,. 
Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away, 

And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 

And  if  'tis  true  what  holy  men  have  said, 
That  strains  angelic  oft  foretel  the  day 
Of  death,  to  those  good  men  who  fall  thy  prey? 

O  let  the  aerial  music  round  my  bed, 

Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony, 

Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear ; 

That  I  may  bid  my  weeping  friends  good  bye, 
Ere  I  depart  upon  my  journey  drear : 

And  smiling  faintly  on  the  painful  past, 

Compose  my  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last. 


HENRY  KIRKK  WHITE. 


319 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  M.  DESBAEREAUX. 

Thy  judgments,  Lord,  are  just ;  thou  lovest  to  wear 

The  face  of  pity,  and  of  love  divine ; 
But  mine  is  guilt — thou  must  not,  canst  not,  spare, 

While  Heaven  is  true,  and  equity  is  thine. 
Yes,  oh,  my  God ! — such  crimes  as  mine,  so  dread, 

Leave  but  the  choice  of  punishment  to  thee ; 
Thy  interest  calls  for  judgment  on  my  head, 

And  even  thy  mercy  dares  not  plead  for  me  ! 
Thy  will  be  done — since  'tis  thy  glory's  due, 

Did  from  mine  eyes  the  endless  torrents  How ; 
Smite — it  is  time —though  endless  death  ensue, 

I  bless  the  avenging  hand  that  lays  me  low. 
But  osl  what  spot  shall  fall  thine  anger's  flood, 
That  has  not  first  been  drench'd  in  Christ's  atoning  blocd  B 


POEMS 


OF    A    LATER  DATE. 


TO  A  FKIEND  IN  DISTRESS, 

Who,  when  the  author  reasoned  with  him  calmly,  &s?;c&, 
il  If  he  did  not  feel  for  hlmf" 

Do  I  not  feel!"    The  doubt  is  keen  as  steel. 
Yea,  I  do  feel — most  exquisitely  feel ; 
My  heart  can  weep,  when  from  my  downcast  eyfi 
I  rhase  the  tear,  and  stem  the  rising  sigh : 
Deep  buried  there  I  close  the  rankling  dart, 
And  smile  the  most  when  heaviest  is  my  heart. 
On  this  I  act — whatever  pangs  surround, 
'Tis  magnanimity  to  hide  the  tvound. 
When  all  was  new,  and  life  was  in  its  spring, 
I  b'ved  an  unloved  solitary  thing ; 
Even  then  I  learnt  to  bury  deep  from  day 
The  piercing  cares  thai;  were  mv  youth  away. 
Even  then  I  learnt  for  others'  cares  to  feel, 
Even  then  I  wept  I  had  not  power  to  heal ; 
Even  then,  deep-sounding  through  the  nightly  gloom, 
I  heard  the  wretched's  groan,  and  moum'd  the  wretched's 
doom. 

Who  were  my  friends  in  youth  ?— The  midnight  fire — 

T  he  silent  moonbeam,  or  the  starry  choir ; 

To  these  I  'plained,  or  turned  from  outer  sight, 

To  bless  my  lonely  taper's  friendly  light ; 

I  never  yet  could  ask,  howe'er  forlorn, 

For  vulgar  pity  mix'd  with  vulgar  scorn; 


POEMS  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE.  321 

The  sacred  source  of  woe  I  never  ope, 
My  breast's  my  coffer,  and  my  God's  my  hope. 
But  that  I  do  feel,  time,  my  friend,  will  show, 
Though  the  cold  crowd  the  secret  never  know ; 
With  them  I  laugh — yet  when  no  eye  can  see, 
I  weep  for  nature,  and  I  weep  for  thee. 

Yes,  thou  didst  wrong  me,  ;  I  fondly  thought, 

In  thee  I'd  found  the  friend  my  heart  had  sought ; 

I  fondly  thought  tjiat  thou  couldst  pierce  the  guise, 

And  read  the  truth  that  in  my  bosom  lies ; 

I  fondly  thought  ere  Time's  last  days  were  gone, 

Thy  heart  and  mine  had  mingled  into  one  ! 

Yes — and  they  yet  will  mingle.    Days  and  years 

Will  fly,  and  leave  us  partners  in  our  tears  : 

We  then  shall  feel  that  friendship  has  a  power, 

To  soothe  affliction  in  her  darkest  hour ; 

Time's  trial  o'er,  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand, 

And  wait  the  passport  to  a  better  land. 

*  Thine, 

H.  K.  White. 

Half-past  11  o'clock  at  night. 


CHRISTMAS-DAY,  1804. 

Yet  once  more,  and  once  more,  awake,  my  harp, 
Prom  silence  and  neglect — one  lofty  strain ; 
Lofty,  yet  wilder  than  the  winds  of  Heaven, 
And  speaking  mysteries,  more  than  words  can  tell, 
I  ask  of  thee ;  for  I,  with  hymnings  high, 
Would  join  the  dirge  of  the  departing  year. 

Yet  with  no  wintry  garland  from  the  woods, 
Wrought  of  the  leafless  branch,  or  ivy  sere, 
Wreathe  I  thy  tresses,  dark  December !  now ; 
Me  higher  quarrel  calls,  with  loudest  song, 
And  fearful  joy,  to  celebrate  the  day 
Of  the  Redeemer. — Near  two  thousand  suns 
y 


POEMS  OP 

Have  set  their  seals  upon  the  rolling  lapse 
Of  generations,  since  the  day-spring  first 
Beamed  from  on  high ! — Now  to  the  mighty  mass 
Of  that  increasing  aggregate,  we  add 
One  unit  more.    Space,  in  comparison 
How  small,  yet  marked  with  how  much  misery; 
Wars,  famines,  and  the  fury,  Pestilence, 
Over  the  nations  hanging  her  dread  scourge ; 
The  oppressed,  too,  in  silent  bitterness, 
Weeping  their  sufferance ;  and'the  arm  of  wrong 
Forcing  the  scanty  portion  from  the  weak, 
And  steeping  the  lone  widow's  couch  with  tears. 

So  has  the  year  been  character'd  with  woe 

In  Christian  land,  and  mark'd  with  wrongs  and  crimes; 

Yet  'twas  not  thus  He  taught — not  thus  He  lived, 

Whose  birth  we  this  day  celebrate  with  prayer 

And  much  thanksgiving. — He,  a  man  of  woes, 

Went  on  the  way  appointed, — path,  though  rude, 

Yet  borne  with  patience  still : — He  came  to  cheer 

The  broken-hearted,  to  raise  up  the  sick, 

And  on  the  wandering  and  benighted  mind 

To  pour  the  light  of  truth. — 0  task  divine ! 

0  more  than  angel  teacher  !  He  had  words 

To  soothe  the  barking  waves,  and  hush  the  winds ; 

And  when  the  soul  was  toss'd  in  troubled  seas. 

Wrapt  in  thick  darkness  and  the  howling  storm, 

He,  pointing  to  the  star  of  peace  on  high, 

Arni'd  it  with  holy  fortitude,  and  bade  it  smile 

At  the  surrounding  wreck. 

When  with  deep  agony  his  heart  was,rack'd, 

Not  for  himself  the  tear-drop  dew'd  his  cheek, 

Tor  them  He  wept,  for  them  to  Heaven  He  prayed, 

His  persecutors — "  Eather,  pardon  them, 

They  know  not  what  they  do." 

Angels  of  Heaven, 

Ye  who  beheld  him  fainting  on  the  cross, 
And  did  him  homage,  say,  may  mortal  join 
The  hallelujahs  of  the  risen  God  ? 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


323 


Will  the  faint  voice  and  grovelling  song  be  heard 
Amid  the  seraphim  in  light  divine  ? 
Yes,  he  will  deign,  the  Prince  of  Peace  will  deign, 
Por  mercy,  to  accept  the  hymn  of  faith, 
Low  thongh  it  be  and  humble. — Lord  of  life, 
The  Christ,  the  Comforter,  thine  advent  now, 
Pills  my  uprising  soul. — I  mount,  I  fly 
Par  o'er  the  skies,  beyond  the  rolling  orbs  ; 
The  bonds  of  flesh  dissolve,  and  earth  recedes, 
And  care,  and  pain,  and  sorrow,  arc  no  more 
*         *         *  * 


NELSONI  MORS. 

Yet  once  again,  my  harp,  yet  once  again, 

One  ditty  more,  and  on  the  mountain  ash 

I  will  again  suspend  thee.    I  have  felt 

The  warm  tear  frequent  on  my  cheek,  since  last 

At  even-tide,  when  all  the  winds  were  hush'd, 

I  woke  to  thee,  the  melancholy  song. 

Since  then  with  Thought  fulness,  a  maid  severe, 

I've  journey' d,  and  have  learn' d  to  shape  the  freaks 

Of  frolic  fancy  to  the  line  of  truth ; 

Not  unrepining,  for  my  froward  heart 

Still  turns  to  thee,  mine  harp,  and  to  the  flow 

Of  spring-gales  past — the  woods  and  storied  haunts 

Of  my  not  songless  boyhood. — Yet  once  more, 

Not  fearless,  I  will  wake  thy  tremulous  tones, 

My  long  neglected  harp. — He  must  not  sink ; 

The  good,  the  brave — he  must  not,  shall  not  sink 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Though  from  the  Muse's  chalice  I  may  pour 
No  precious  dews  of  Aganippe's  well, 
Or  Castaly, — though  from  the  morning  cloud 
I  fetch  no  hues  to  scatter  on  his  hearse : 
y  2 


324 


POEMS  OP 


Yet  will  I  wreathe  a  garland  for  his  brows. 

Of  simple  flowers,  such  as  the  hedgerows  scent 

Of  Britain,  my  loved  country ;  and  with  tears 

Most  eloquent,  yet  silent,  I  will  bathe 

Thy  honour' d  corse,  my  Nelson,  tears  as  warm 

And  honest  as  the  ebbing  blood  that  flow'd 

Fast  from  thy  honest  heart. — Thou  Pity  too, 

If  ever  I  have  loved,  with  faltering  step, 

To  follow  thee  in  the  cold  and  starless  night, 

To  the  top-crag  of  some  rain-beaten  cliff ; 

And  as  I  heard  the  deep  gun  bursting  loud 

Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  have  pour'd 

Wild  strains,  and  mournful,  to  the  hurrying  winds, 

Thy  dying  soul's  viaticum ;  if  oft 

Amid  the  carnage  of  the  field  I've  sate 

With  thee  upon  the  moonlight  throne,  and  sung 

To  cheer  the  fainting  soldier's  dying  soul, 

With  mercy  and  forgiveness ;  visitant 

Of  Heaven,  sit  thou  upon  my  harp, 

And  give  it  feeling,  which  were  else  too  cold 

For  argument  so  great,  for  theme  so  high. 

How  dimly  on  that  morn  the  sun  arose, 

'Kerchieft  in  mists,  and  tearful,  when  

*         *         *  * 


HYMN. 

In  Heaven  we  shall  be  purified,  so  as  to  be  able  to  endure  the 
splendours  of  the  Deity. 

L 

Awake,  sweet  harp  of  Judah,  wake, 
Retune  thy  strings  for  Jesus'  sake ; 
We  sing  the  Saviour  of  our  race, 
The  Lamb,  our  shield,  and  hiding  place. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


325 


ii. 

When  God's  right  arm  is  bared  for  war, 
And  thunders  clothe  his  cloudy  car, 
Where,  where,  oh  where,  shall  man  retire, 
To  escape  the  horrors  of  his  ire  ? 

nr. 

'Tis  he,  the  Lamb,  to  him  we  fly, 
While  the  dread  tempest  passes  by : 
God  sees  his  Well-beloved's  face, 
And  spares  us  in  our  hiding  place. 

IV. 

Thus  while  we  dwell  in  this  low  scene, 
The  Lamb  is  our  unfailing  screen ; 
To  him,  though  guilty,  still  we  run, 
And  God  still  spares  us  for  his  Son. 

v. 

While  yet  we  sojourn  here  below, 
Pollutions  still  our  hearts  o'erflow ; 
Fallen,  abject,  mean,  a  sentenced  race, 
We  deeply  need  a  hiding  place. 

VI. 

Yet,  courage ! — days  and  years  will  glide, 
And  we  shall  lay  these  clods  aside  ; 
Shall  be  baptized  in  Jordan's  flood, 
And  washed  in  Jesus'  cleansing  blood. 

VI. 

Then  pure,  immortal,  sinless,  freed, 
We  through  the  Lamb  shall  be  decreed ; 
Shall  meet  the  Father  face  to  face, 
And  need  no  more  a  hiding  place. 

The  last  stanza  of  this  hymn  was  added  extemporaneously,  by  the 
author,  one  summer  evening,  when  he  was  with  a  few  friends  on 
the  Trent,  and  singing  it,  as  he  was  used  to  do  on  such  occasions. 


POEMS  OP 


A  HYMN  FOR  FAMILY  WORSHIP. 


0  Loud,  another  day  is  flown, 

And  we,  a  lonely  band, 
Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne, 

To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 

ii. 

And  wilt  thou  bend  a  listening  ear, 
To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 

Thou  wilt !  for  thou  dost  love  to  hear 
The  song  which  meekness  pours. 

hi. 

And  Jesus  thou  thy  smiles  will  deign, 
As  we  before  thee  pray : 

Por  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train, 
Aud  we  are  less  than  they. 

nr. 

0  let  thy  grace  perform  its  part, 
And  let  contention  cease ; 

And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 
Thine  everlasting  peace ! 


Thus  chasten' d,  cleansed,  entirely  thine, 

A  flock  by  Jesus  led : 
The  Sun  of  Holiness  shall  shine 

In  glory  on  our  head. 

VI. 

And  thou  wilt  turn  our  wandering  feet. 

And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way ; 
'Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 

The  dawn  of  lasting  day. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


When  marshalTd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky ; 

One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 

Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 

ii. 

Hark !  hark !  to  God  the  chorns  breaks, 
Erom  every  host,  from  every  gem ; 

But  one  alone  the  Saviour  speaks, 
It  is  the  star  of  Bethlehem. 

in. 

Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 

The  storm  was  loud, — the  night  was  dark9 
The  ocean  yawn'd, — and  rudely  blow'd 

The  wind  that  toss'd  my  foundering  bark, 


Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze, 

Death-struck,  I  ceased  the  tide  to  stem ; 
When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 

It  was  the  star  of  Bethlehem. 


It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all, 

It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease ; 

And  through  the  storm  and  dangers'  thrall, 
It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 

VI. 

Now  safely  moored— my  perils  o'er, 
I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 

'Fov  ever  and  for  evermore, 

The  star ! — the  star  of  Bethlehem ! 


POEMS  OP 


A  HYMN. 

0  Lord,  my  God,  in  mercy  turn, 
In  mercy  hear  a  sinner  mourn ! 
To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  cry, 

0  leave  me,  leave  me  not  to  die ! 

1  strove  against  thee,  Lord,  I  know, 

I  spurn' d  thy  grace,  I  mock  thy  lawf 
The  hour  is  past — the  day's  gone  by 
And  I  am  left  alone  to  die. 

O  pleasures  past,  what  are  ye  now 
But  thorns  about  my  bleeding  brow  ? 
Spectres  that  hover  round  my  brain, 
And  aggravate  and  mock  my  pain. 

For  pleasure  I  have  given  my  soul ; 
Now,  Justice,  let  thy  thunders  roll ! 
Now,  Vengeance,  smile — and  with  a  blow, 
Lay  the  rebellious  ingrate  low. 

Yet  Jesus,  Jesus !  there  Til  cling, 
I'll  crowd  beneath  his  sheltering  wing ; 
I'll  clasp  the  cross,  and  holding  there, 
Even  me,  oh  bliss ! — his  wrath  may  spare. 


MELODY. 

in  a  collection  of  selected  and  original  Songs,  published  by 
the  Rev.  J.  Plumptke,  of  Clare  Hall,  Cambridge. 

L 

Yes,  once  more  that  dying  strain, 

Anna,  touch  thy  lute  for  me ; 
Sweet,  when  pity's  tones  complain, 

Doubly  sweet  is  melody. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


329 


II. 

While  the  Virtues  thus  inweave 
Mildly  soft  the  thrilling  song, 

Winter's  long  and  lonesome  eve, 
Glides  unfelt,  unseen  along. 

m. 

Thus  when  life  hath  stolen  away, 
And  the  wintry  night  is  near ; 

Thus  shall  Virtue's  friendly  ray, 
Age's  closing  evening  cheer. 


SONG. 

BY  WALLER. 

A.  lady  of  Cambridge  lent  Waller's  Poems  to  the  author,  and  when  ht 
returned  them  to  her,  she  discovered  an  additional  stanza  written 
by  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  song  here  copied. 

Go,  lovely  rose ! 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied: 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 


130 


POEMS  OF 


Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee ; 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share, 
That  are  so  wondrous,  sweet,  and  fair 


[Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
From  thy  dead -leaves  let  fragrance  rise ; 

And  teach  the  maid, 
That  goodness  Time's  rude  hand  defies, 
That  virtue  lives  when  beauty  dies.] 

H.  K.  White. 


"I  AM  PLEASED,  AND  YET  I'M  SAD.' 
I. 

Whe:n"  twilight  steals  along  the  ground, 
And  all  the  bells  are  ringing  round, 

One,  two,  three,  four,  and  five ; 
I  at  my  study  window  sit, 
And  wrapt  in  many  a  musing  fit, 

To  bliss  am  all  alive. 

II. 

But  though  impressions  calm  and  sweefc, 
Thrill  round  my  heart  a  holy  heat, 

And  I  am  inly  glad ; 
The  tear-drop  stands  in  either  eye, 
And  yet  I  cannot  tell  thee  why, 

I  am  pleased,  and  yet  I'm  sad. 

m. 

The  silvery  rack  that  flies  away, 
Like  mortal  life  or  pleasure's  ray, 

Does  that  disturb  my  breast  ? 
Nay  what  have  I,  a  studious  man, 
To  do  with  life's  unstable  plan, 

Or  pleasure's  lading  vest  ? 


KENRY  KOIKE  WHITE. 
IV. 

Is  it  that  here  I  must  not  stop, 
But  o'er  yon  blue  hills  woody  top, 

Must  beD  d  my  lonely  way  ? 
Now,  surely  no,  for  give  but  me 
My  own  fire-side,  and  I  shall  be 

At  home  where'er  I  stray. 

v. 

Then  is  it  that  yon  steeple  there, 
With  music  sweet  shall  fill  the  air, 

When  thou  no  more  canst  hear  ? 
Oh  no !  oh  no !  for  then  forgiven, 
I  shall  be  with  my  God  in  Heaven, 

Released  from  every  fear. 

VI. 

Then  whence  it  is  I  cannot  tell, 
But  there  is  some  mysterious  spell 

That  holds  me  when  I'm  glad ; 
And  so  the  tear-drop  fills  my  eye, 
When  yet  in  truth  I  know  not  why, 

Or  wherefore  I  am  sad. 


SOLITUDE. 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low, 
That  bids  this  silent  tear  to  flow ; 
It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan, 
It  is  that  I  am  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  glens  I  love  to  roam, 
When  the  tired  hedger  hies  him  home 
Or  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest, 
When  pale  the  star  looks  on  its  breast. 


POEMS  OP 


Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs, 
With  hallowed  airs  and  symphonies, 
My  spirit  takes  another  tone, 
And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 

The  antnmn  leaf  is  sere  and  dead, 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed ; 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh ! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sudden  wail, 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale ; 
I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free, 
And  when  I  sigh,  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  a  form  I  view, 
That  thinks  on  me  and  loves  me  too ; 
I  start,  and  when  the  vision's  flown, 
I  weep  that  I  am  all  alone. 


If  far  from  me  the  Eates  remove 
Domestic  peace,  connubial  love ; 
The  prattling  ring,  the  social  cheer, 
Affection's  voice,  affection's  tear ; 
Ye  sterner  powers  that  bind  the  heart, 
To  me  your  iron  aid  impart ! 

0  teach  me,  when  the  nights  are  chill, 
And  my  fire-side  is  lone  and  still ; 
When  to  the  blaze  that  crackles  neai, 

1  turn  a  tired  and  pensive  ear, 

And  nature  conquering  bids  me  sigh, 
For  love's  soft  accents  whispering  nigh  $ 
0  teach  me  on  that  heavenly  road, 
That  leads  to  Truth's  occult  abode, 
To  wrap  my  soul  in  dreams  sublime, 
Till  earth  and  care  no  more  be  mine. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


333 


Let  blest  philosophy  impart, 
Her  soothing  measures  to  my  heart ; 
And  while,  with  Plato's  ravished  ears, 
I  list  the  music  of  the  spheres ; 
Or  on  the  mystic  symbols  pore, 
That  hide  the  Chald's  sublimer  lore ; 
I  shall  not  brood  on  summers  gone, 
Nor  think  that  I  am  all  alone. 


Eanny  !  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie ! 

Fanny !  thou  dost  not  hear  me  when  I  speak ! 
Where  art  thou,  love  ? — Around  I  turn  my  eye, 

And  as  I  turn,  the  tear  is  on  my  cheek. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?  or  did  my  love  behold 

Indeed  my  lonely  couch  ?— Methought  the  breath 
Fann'd  not  her  bloodless  lip ;  her  eye  was  cold 

And  hollow,  and  the  livery  of  death 
Invested  her  pale  forehead. — Sainted  maid, 

My  thoughts  oft  rest  with  thee  in  thy  cold  grave, 

Through  the  long  wintry  night,  when  wind  and  wave 
Rock  the  dark  house  where  thy  poor  head  is  laid. 
Yet  hush  !  my  fond  heart,  hush  !  there  is  a  shore 

Of  better  promise ;  and  I  know  at  last, 

When  the  long  sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past, 
We  two  shall  meet  in  Christ — to  part  no  more. 


334 


POEMS  OF 


VERSES. 

Thou  base  repiner  at  another's  joy, 

Whose  eye  turns  green  at  merit  not  thine  own ; 
Oh  far  away  from  generous  Britons  fly, 
And  find  in  meaner  climes  a  fitter  throne ! 
Away,  away,  it  shall  not  be, 

That  thou  shalt  dare  defile  our  plains ; 
The  truly  generous  heart  disdains 
Thy  meaner,  lowlier  fires,  while  he 
Joys  at  another's  joy,  and  smiles  at  other's  jollity. 

Triumphant  monster !  though  thy  schemes  succeed, — 

Schemes  laid  in  Acheron,  the  brood  of  night, 
Yet,  but  a  little  while,  and  nobly  freed, 

Thy  happy  victim  will  emerge  to  light ; 
"When  o'er  his  head  in  silence  that  reposes, 

Some  kindred  soul  shall  come  to  drop  a  tear, 
Then  will  his  last  cold  pillow  turn  to  roses, 

Which  thou  hadst  planted  with  the  thorn  severe ; 
Then  will  thy  baseness  stand  confess'd,  and  all 

Will  curse  the  ungenerous  fate  that  bade  a  Poet  fall. 

ife  3£ 

Yet  ah !  thy  sorrows  are  too  keen,  too  sure  ! 

Couldst  thou  not  pitch  upon  another  prey  ? 
Alas !  in  robbing  him  thou  robb'st  the  poor, 

Who  only  boast  what  thou  wouldst  take  away. 
See  the  lone  bard  at  midnight  study  sitting ; 

O'er  his  pale  features  streams  Ins  dying  lamp ; 
While  o'er  fond  fancy's  paic  perspective  flitting, 

Successive  forms  their  fleet  ideas  stamp. 
Yet,  say,  is  bliss  upon  his  brow  impress'd  ? 

Does  jocund  health  in  thought's  still  mansion  live? 
Lo,  the  cold  dews  that  on  his  temples  rest, 

That  short  quick  sigh — their  sad  responses  give ! 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


335 


And  canst  thou  rob  a  poet  of  his  song ; 

Snatch  from  the  bard  his  trivial  meed  of  praise  ? 
Small  are  his  gains,  nor  does  he  hold  them  long ; 

Then  leave,  0  leave  him  to  enjoy  his  lays 
While  yet  he  lives, — for,  to  his  merits  just, 

Though  future  ages  join  his  fame  to  raise, 
Will  the  loud  trump  awake  his  cold  unheeding  dust  ? 
#         *         *  * 


EPIGRAM  ON  ROBERT  BLOOMFIELIX 

Bloomiteld,  thy  happy  omeud  name 
Ensures  continuance  to  thy  fame  : 
"Both  sense  and  trutK  this  verdict  give, 
"Whilst  fields  shall  bloom  thy  name  shall  live ! 


336 


FRAGMENTS. 


These  fragments  are  the  author's  latest  compositions;  and  were, for 
the  most  part,  written  upon  the  back  of  his  mathematical  papers, 
during  the  few  moments  of  the  last  year  of  his  life,  in  which  he 
suffered  himself  to  follow  the  impulse  of  his  genir^ 


L 

"  Saw'st  thou  that  light  P"  exclaim'd  the  youth,  aud  paused; 

"  Through  you  dark  firs  it  glauced,  aud  ou  the  stream 

That  skirts  the  woods,  it  for  a  moment  played. 

Again,  more  light  it  gleam' d, — or  does  some  sprite 

Delude  mine  eyes  with  shapes  of  wood  and  streams, 

And  lamp  far  beaming  throuern  tne  thicket's  gloom, 

As  from  some  bosom'd  cabin,  wnere  the  voice 

Of  revelry,  or  thrifty  watchfulness, 

Keeps  in  the  lights  at  this  unwonted  hour  ? 

No  sprite  deludes  mine  eyes, — the  beam  now  glows 

With  steady  lustre. — Can  it  be  the  moon, 

Who,  hidden  long  by  the  invidious  veil 

That  blots  the  Heavens,  now  sets  behind  the  woods  P"— 

"  No  moon  to-night  has  looked  upon  the  sea 

Of  clouds  beneath  her,"  answered  Rudiger, 

"  She  has  been  sleeping  with  Endymion." 

*         *         *  • 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


337 


The  pious  man, 
In  this  bad  world,  when  mists  and  couchant  storms, 
Hide  Heaven's  fine  circlet,  springs  aloft  in  faith 
Above  the  clouds  that  threat  him,  to  the  fields 
Of  ether,  where  the  day  is  never  veiled 
With  intervening  vapours and  looks  down 
Serene  upon  the  troublous  sea,  that  hides 
The  earth's  fair  breast,  that  sea  whose  nether  face 
To  grovelling  mortals  frowns  and  darkens  all ; 
But  on  whose  billowy  back,  from  man  concealeu 
The  glaring  sunbeam  plays. 


m. 

Lo !  on  the  eastern  summit,  clad  in  grey, 
Morn,  like  a  horseman  girt  for  travel,  comes; 
And  from  his  tower  of  mist, 
Night's  watchman  hurries  down. 


IV. 

There  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  pile ; 

It  perched  upon  a  ruined  pinnacle, 

And  made  sweet  melody. 

The  song  was  soft,  yet  cheerful,  and  most  ciear3 

Eor  other  note  none  swelled  the  air  but  his. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  little  chorister, 

Sole  tenant  of  the  melancholy  pile, 

Were  a  lone  hermit,  outcast  from  his  kind, 

Yet  withal  cheerful. — I  have  heard  the  note 

Echoing  so  lonely  o'er  the  aisle  forlorn, 

 Much  musing — 

z 


338 


poems  or 


IT 
r  w 

0  pale  art  thou,  my  lamp,  and  faint 

Thy  melancholy  ray : 
When  the  still  night's  unclouded  saint. 

Is  walking  on  her  way. 
Through  my  lattice  leaf  embowered, 
Pair  she  sheds  her  shadowy  beam ; 
And  o'er  my  silent  sacred  room, 
Casts  a  chequered  twilight  gloom  • 
I  throw  aside  the  learned  sheet, 

1  cannot  choose  but  gaze,  she  looks  so  mildly  »we 
Sad  vestal  why  art  thou  so  fair, 

Or  why  am  I  so  frail  ? 

Methinks  thou  lookest  kindly  on  me,  Moon, 

And  cheerest  my  lone  hours  with  sweet  regards ! 

Surely  like  me  thou'rt  sad,  but  dost  not  speak 
Thy  sadness  to  the  cold  unheeding  crowd ; 

So  mournfully  compos'd,  o'er  yonder  cloud 

Thou  shinest,  like  a  cresset,  beaming  far 

From  the  rude  watch-tower,  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave. 


YI. 

0  give  me  music — for  my  soul  doth  faint ; 

I  am  sick  of  noise  and  care,  and  now  mine  ear 
Longs  for  some  air  of  peace,  some  dying  plaint, 

That  may  the  spirit  from  its  cell  unsphere. 

Hark  how  it  falls !  and  now  it  steals  along, 
Like  distant  bells  upon  the  lake  at  eve, 

When  all  is  still ;  and  now  it  grows  more  strong, 
As  when  the  choral  train  their  dirges  weave, 

Mellow  and  many-voiced ;  where  every  close, 

O'er  the  old  minster  roof,  in  echoing  waves  reflows. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


339 


Oh  !  I  am  wrapt  aloft.    My  spirit  soars 

Beyond  the  skies,  and  leaves  the  stars  behind. 

Lo !  angels  lead  me  to  the  happy  shores, 
And  floating  pseans  fill  the  buoyant  wind. 

Farewell !  base  earth,  farewell !  my  soul  is  freed, 

Ear  frcni  its  clayey  cell  it  springs, — 
*         *         &  * 


VII. 

An  !  who  can  say,  however  fair  hfs  view, 
Through  what  sad  scenes  his  path  may  lie  ? 
Ah  !  who  can  give  to  other's  woes  his  sigh, 

Secure  his  own  will  never  need  it  too  ! 

Let  thoughtless  youth  its  seeming  joys  pursue, 
Soon  will  they  learn  to  scan  with  thoughtful  eye, 
The  illusive  past  and  dark  futurity ; 

.Soon  will  they  know — 

*         #         *  # 


VIII. 

And  must  thou  go,  and  must  we  part ! 

Yes,  Fate  decrees,  and  I  submit ; 
The  pang  that  rends  in  twain  my  heart, 

Oh,  Fanny,  dost  thou  share  in  it  ? 

Thy  sex  is  fickle, — when  away, 

Some  happier  youth  may  win  thy— 


z  2 


340 


POEMS  OF 


IX. 

SONNET. 

When  I  sit  musing  on  the  chequered  past, 
(A  term  much  darkened  with  untimely  woes,) 
My  thoughts  revert  to  her,  for  whom  still  flows 
The  tear,  though  half  disowned ; — and  binding  fast 
Pride's  stubborn  cheat  to  my  too  yielding  heart, 
I  say  to  her  she  robbed  me  of  my  rest, 
When  that  was  all  my  wealth. — 'Tis  true  my  breast 
Received  from  ljer  this  wearying  lingering  smart ; 
Yet  ah  !  I  cannot  bid  her  form  depart ; 

Though  wronged,  I  love  her— yet  in  anger  love, 
For  she  was  most  unworthy. — Then  I  prove 
Vindictive  joy ;  and  on  my  stern  front  gleams, 
Throned  in  dark  clouds,  inflexible    *   *  * 
The  native  pride  of  my  much  injured  heart. 


X. 

When  high  romance  o'er  every  wood  and  stream, 

Dark  lustre  shed,  my  infant  mind  to  fire ; 
Spell-struck,  and  filled  with  many  a  wondering  dream, 

First  in  the  groves  I  woke  the  pensive  lyre. 
All  there  was  mystery  then,  the  gust  that  woke 

The  midnight  echo  was  a  spirit's  dirge ; 
And  unseen  fairies  would  the  moon  invoke, 

To  their  light  morrice  by  the  restless  surge. 
Now  to  my  sobered  thought  with  life's  false  smiles, 

Too  much   *   *  * 
The  vagrant,  Fancy,  spreads  no  more  her  wiles, 

And  dark  forebodings  now  my  bosom  fill. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


341 


XI. 

Hushed  is  the  lyre — the  hand  that  swept 
The  low  and  pensive  wires, 
"Robbed  of  its  cunning,  from  the  task  retires. 

Yes — it  is  still — the  lyre  is  still ; 

The  spirit  which  its  slumbers  broke, 

Hath  passed  away, — and  that  weak  hand  that  woke 
Its  forest  melodies  hath  lost  its  skill. 
Yet  I  would  press  you  to  my  lips  once  more, 

Ye  wild,  yet  withering  flowers  of  poesy ; 
Yet  would  I  drink  the  fragrance  which  ye  pour, 

Mixed  with  decaying  odours  ;  for  to  me 
Ye  have  beguiled  the  hours  of  infancy, 

As  in  the  wood-paths  of  my  native — 
•         *         *  « 


XII. 

Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 

I  give  unto  my  harp  a  dark-woven  lay ; 
I  heard  the  waters  roar, 

I  heard  the  flood  of  ages  pass  away. 
O  thou,  stern  spirit,  who  dost  dwell 

In  thine  eternal  cell, 
Noting,  grey  chronicler  !  the  silent  years ; 

I  saw  thee  rise, — I  saw  the  scroll  complete, 

Thou  spakest,  and  at  thy  feet, 
The  universe  gave  way. 


312 


POEMS  OP 


FRAGMENT. 

Loud  rage  the  winds  without. — The  wintry  cloud 
O'er  the  cold  north  star  casts  her  fitting  shroud ; 
And  Silence,  pausing  in  some  snow-clad  dale, 
Starts  as  she  hears,  by  fits,  the  shrieking  gale ; 
Where  now  shut  out  from  every  still  retreat 
Her  pine-clad  summit,  and  her  woodland  seat, 
Shall  Meditation,  in  her  saddest  mood, 
Betire,  o'er  all  her  pensive  stores  to  brood  ? 
Shivering  and  blue,  the  peasant  eyes  askance 
The  drifted  fieeces  that  around  him  dance ; 
And  harries  on  his  half- averted  form, 
Stemming  the  fury  of  the  sidelong  storm. 
Him  soon  shall  greet  his  snow-topp'd  [cot  of  thatch], 
Soon  shall  his  'numbed  hand  tremble  on  the  latch ; 
Soon  from  his  chimney's  nook  the  cheerful  flame 
Diffuse  a  genial  warmth  throughout  his  frame. 
Hound  the  light  fire,  while  roars  the  north  wind  loud, 
What  merry  groups  of  vacant  faces  crowd ; 
These  hail  his  coming— these  his  meal  prepare, 
And  boast  in  all  that  cot  no  lurking  care. 

What,  though  ths  social  circle  be  denied, 
Even  Sadness  brightens  at  her  own  fireside; 
Loves,  with  fixed  eye,  to  watch  the  fluttering  blaze,. 
While  musing  Memory  dwells  on  former  days ; 
Or  Hope,  bless'd  spirit !  smiles — and,  still  forgiven, 
Forgets  the  passport,  while  she  points  to  Heaven. 
Then  heap  the  fire — shut  out  the  biting  air, 
xYnd  from  its  station  wheel  the  easy  chair : 
Thus  fenced  and  warm,  in  silence  fit,  'tis  sweet 
To  hear  without  the  bitter  tempest  beat, 
And,  all  alone,  to  sit,  and  muse,  and  sigh, 
The  pensive  tenant  of  obscurity. 

*         &         *  $ 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


343 


VERSES. 

When  pride  and  envy,  and  the  scorn 
Of  wealth,  my  heart  with  gall  imbued, 

I  thought  how  pleasant  were  the  morn 
Of  silence  in  the  solitude ; 

To  hear  the  forest  bee  on  wing ; 

Or  by  the  stream,  or  woodland  spring, 

To  lie  and  muse  alone — alone, 

While  the  tinkling  waters  moan, 

Or  such  wild  sounds  arise,  as  say, 

Man  and  noise  are  far  away. 

Now,  surely,  thought  I,  there's  enow 

To  fill  life's  dusty  way ; 
And  who  will  miss  a  poet's  feet, 

Or  wonder  where  he  stray  ? 
So  to  the  woods  and  waste  I'll  go, 

And  I  will  build  an  osier  bower ; 
And  sweetly  there  to  me  shall  now 

The  meditative  hour. 

And  wh*n  the  Autumn's  withering  hand 
Shall  strew  with  leaves  the  sylvan  land, 
I'll  to  the  forest  caverns  hie  : 
And  in  the  dark  and  stormy  nights 
I'll  listen  to  the  shrieking  sprites, 
Who,  in  the  wintry  wolds  and  floods, 
Keep  jubilee,  and  shred  the  woods ; 
Or,  as  it  drifted  soft  and  slow, 
Hurl  in  ten  thousand  shapes  the  snow, 
•         *         *  * 


344 


POEMS  OP 


ON  WHIT-MONDAY. 

Hark  !  how  the  merry  bells  ring  jocund  round;, 
And  now  they  die  upon  the  veering  breeze : 

Anon  they  thunder  loud, 

Eull  on  the  musing  ear. 

Wafted  in  varying  cadence  by  the  short 
Of  the  still  twinkling  river,  they  bespeak 

A  day  of  jubilee, — 

An  ancient  holyday. 

And  lo !  the  rural  revels  are  begun, 
And  gaily  echoing  to  the  laughing  sky, 

On  the  smooth  shaven  green 

Resounds  the  voice  of  Mirth. 

Alas  !  regardless  of  the  tongue  of  Eate, 
That  tells  them  'tis  but  as  an  hour  since  they 

Who  now  are  in  their  graves 

Kept  up  the  Whitsun  dance  ; 

And  that  another  hour,  and  they  must  fall 
Like  those  who  went  before,  and  sleep  as  still 

Beneath  the  silent  sod, 

A  cold  and  cheerless  sleep. 

Yet  why  should  thoughts  like  these  intrude  to  scar© 
The  vagrant  Happiness,  when  she  will  deign 

To  smile  upon  us  here, 

A  transient  visitor  ? 

Mortals !  be  gladsome  while  ye  have  the  power, 
And  laugh  and  seize  the  glittering  lapse  of  joy ; 

In  time  the  bell  will  toll 

That  warns  ye  to  your  graves. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


345 


I  to  the  woodland  solitude  will  bend 

My  lonesome  way — where  Mirth's  obstreperous  shout 

Shall  not  intrude  to  break 

The  meditative  hour. 

There  will  1  ponder  on  the  state  of  man, 
Joyless  and  sad  of  heart,  and  consecrate 

This  day  of  jubilee 

To  sad  Reflection's  shrine ; 

And  I  will  cast  my  fond  eve  far  beyond 
This  world  of  care,  to  where  the  steeple  loud 

Shall  rock  above  the  sod, 

Where  I  shall  sleep  in  peace. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DERMODY,  THE  POET. 

Child  of  misfortune !  offspring  of  the  Muse  ! 
Mark  like  the  meteor's  gleam,  his  mad  career; 
With  hollow  cheeks  and  haggard  eye, 
Behold,  he  shrieking  passes  by ; 

I  see,  I  see  him  near : 
That  hollow  scream,  that  deepening  groan ; 
It  rings  upon  mine  ear. 

Oh  come  ye  thoughtless,  ye  deluded  youth, 
Who  clasp  the  syren  Pleasure  to  your  breast ; 
Behold  the  wreck  of  Genius  here ; 
And  drop,  oh  drop  the  silent  tear 

For  Dermody  at  rest ; 
His  fate  is  yours,  then  from  your  loins 
Tear  quick  the  silken  vest. 


POEMS  OF 


Saw'st  thou  his  dying  bed !  Saw'st  thou  his  eye- 
Once  flashing  five,  despair's  dim  tear  distil ; 
How  ghastly  did  it  seem ; 
And  then  his  dying  scream ; 

Oh  God  !  I  hear  it  still : 
It  sounds  upon  my  fainting  sense, 
It  strikes  with  deathly  chill. 

Say,  didst  thou  mark  the  brilliant  poet's  death ; 
Saw'st  thou  an  anxious  father  by  his  bed, 
Or  pitying  friends  around  him  stand  ? 
Or  didst  thou,  see  a  mother's  hand 

Support  his  languid  head  ? 
Oh  none  of  these — no  friend  o'er  him 
The  balm  of  pity  shed. 

Now  come  around,  ye  flippant  sons  of  wealth, 
Sarcastic  smile  on  genius  fallen  low ; 
Now  come  around  who  pant  for  fame, 
And  learn  from  hence,  a  poet's  name 

Is  purchased  but  by  woe  : 
And  when  ambition  prompts  to  rise, 
Oh  think  of  him  below. 

For  me,  poor  moralizer,  I  will  run, 
Dejected,  to  some  solitary  state  : 
The  muse  has  set  her  seal  on  me, 
She  set  her  seal  on  Dermody, 

It  is  the  seal  of  fate  : 
In  some  lone  spot  my  bones  may  lie, 
Secure  from  human  hate. 

Yet. ere  I  go  I'll  drop  one  silent  tear, 

Where  lies  unwept  the  poet's  fallen  head : 
May  peace  her  banners  o'er  him  wave ; 
Tor  me  in  my  deserted  grave 

No  friend  a  tear  shall  shed : 
Yet  may  the  lily  and  the  rose 
13  loom  on  my  grassy  bed. 


HENRY  KIItKE  WHITE.  SiT 


THE  WONDERFUL  JUGGLER. 

A  SONG. 

Come  all  ye  true  hearts,  who,  old  England  to  save, 
Now  shoulder  the  musket,  or  plough  the  rough  wave, 
I  will  sing  you  a  song  of  a  wonderful  fellow, 
Who  has  ruined  Jack  Pudding,  and  broke  Punchinello. 

Derry  down,  down,  high  derry  down. 

This  juggler  is  little,  and  ugly,  and  black, 

But,  like  Atlas,  he  stalks  with  the  world  at  his  back; 

5Tis  certain,  all  fear  of  the  devil  he  scorns ; 

Some  say  they  are  cousins ;  we  know  he  wears  horns. 

Derry  down. 

At  hop,  skip,  and  jump,  who  so  famous  as  he  ? 
He  hopp'd  o'er  an  army,  he  skipp'd  o'er  the  sea ; 
And  he  jump'd  from  the  desk  of  a  village  attorney 
To  the  throne  of  the  Bourbons — a  pretty  long  journey. 

Derry  down. 

He  tosses  up  kingdoms  the  same  as  a  ball, 
And  his  cup  is  so  fashion' d  it  catches  them  all; 
The  Pope  and  Grand  Turk  have  been  heard  to  declare 
His  skill  at  the  long  bow  has  made  them  both  stare. 

Derry  down* 

He  has  shown  off  his  tricks  in  Prance,  Italy,  Spain; 
And  Germany  too  knows  his  legerdemain; 
So  hearing  John  Bull  has  a  taste  for  strange  sights, 
He's  coming  to  London  to  put  us  to  rights. 

Derry  down. 

'io  encourage  his  puppets  to  venture  this  trip, 
He  has  built  them  such  boats  as  can  conquer  a  ship; 
Writh  a  gun  of  good  metal,  that  shoots  out  so  far, 
It  can  silence  the  broadsides  of  three  men  of  war. 

Derry  down.. 


348 


POEMS  OF 


This  new  Katterfelto,  his  show  to  complete, 
Means  his  boats  should  all  sink  as  they  pass  by  onr  fleet ; 
Then,  as  under  the  ocean  their  course  they  steer  right  on, 
They  can  pepper  their  foes  from  the  bed  of  old  Triton. 

Derry  down. 

If  this  project  should  fail,  he  has  others  in  store ; 
Wooden  horses,  for  instance,  may  bring  them  safe  o'er ; 
Or  the  genius  of  France  (as  the  Moniteur  tells) 
May  order  balloons,  or  provide  diving  bells. 

Derry  down. 

When  Philip  of  Spain  fitted  out  his  Armada, 
Britain  saw  his  designs,  and  could  meet  her  invader ; 
But  how  to  greet  Bonny  she  never  will  know, 
If  he  comes  in  the  style  of  a  fish  or  a  crow. 

Derry  down. 

Now  if  our  rude  tars  will  so  crowd  up  the  seas, 

That  his  boats  have  not  room  to  go  down  when  they  pleas^ 

Can't  he  wait  till  the  channel  is  quite  frozen  over, 

And  a  stout  pair  of  skates  will  transport  him  to  Dover. 

Derry  down. 

How  welcome  he'll  be,  it  were  needless  to  say ; 
Neither  he  nor  his  puppets  shall  e'er  go  away ; 
I  am  sure  at  his  heels  we  shall  constantly  stick, 
Till  we  know  he  has  played  off  his  very  last  trick. 

Derry  down,  down,  high  derry  down. 


HENKY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


349 


SONNET  TO  MY  MOTHER. 

And  canst  thou,  Mother,  for  a  moment  think 
That  we,  thy  children,  when  old  age  shall  shed 
Its  blanching  honours  on  thy  weary  head, 

Could  from  our  best  of  duties  ever  shrink  ? 

Sooner  the  sun  from  his  high  sphere  should  sink 
Than  we,  ungrateful,  leave  thee  in  that  day, 
To  pine  in  solitude  thy  life  away, 

Or  shun  thee,  tottering  on  the  grave's  cold  brink. 

Banish  the  thought ! — where'er  our  steps  may  roam, 
O'er  smiling  plains,  or  wastes  without  a  tree, 
Still  will  fond  memory  point  our  hearts  to  thee, 

And  paint  the  pleasures  of  thy  peaceful  home ; 
While  duty  bids  us  all  thy  griefs  assuage, 
And  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  sinking  age. 


SONNET. 

Sweet  to  the  gay  of  heart  is  Summer's  smile, 

Sweet  the  wild  music  of  the  laughing  Spring ; 
But  ah !  my  soul  far  other  scenes  beguile, 

Where  gloomy  storms  their  sullen  shadows  fling. 
Is  it  for  me  to  strike  the  Idalian  string — 

liaise  the  soft  music  of  the  warbling  wire, 
While  in  my  ears  the  howls  of  furies  ring, 

And  melancholy  wastes  the  vital  fire  ? 
Away  with  thoughts  like  these.    To  some  lone  cave 

Where  howls  the  shrill  blast,  and  where  sweeps  the 
wave, 

Direct  my  steps ;  there,  in  the  lonely  drear, 
I'll  sit  remote  from  worldly  noise,  and  muse 
Till  through  my  soul  shall  Peace  her  balm  infuse, 

And  whisper  sounds  of  comfort  in  mine  ear. 


350  POEMS  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


SONNET. 

Quick  o'er  the  wintry  waste  dart  fiery  shafts — 

Bleak  blows  the  blast — now  howls — then  faintly  dies- 
And  oft  upon  its  awful  wings  it  wafts 

Thy  dying  wanderer's  distant,  feeble  cries. 
Now,  when  athwart  the  gloom  gaunt  horror  stalks, 

And  midnight  hags  their  damned  vigils  hold, 
The  pensive  poet  'mid  the  wild  waste  walks, 

And  ponders  on  the  ills  life's  paths  unfold. 
Mindless  of  dangers  hoverirg  round,  he  goes., 

Insensible  to  every  outward  ill; 
Yet  oft  his  bosom  heaves  with  rending  throes, 

And  oft  big  tears  adown  his  worn  cheeks  trill. 
Ah !  'tis  the  anguish  of  a  mental  sore, 
Which  gnaws  Ids  heart  and  bids  him  hope  no  more,. 


Time.-  P.  351. 


T  I  M  E. 

This  poem  was  begun  either  during  the  publication  of  Clifton 
Grove  or  shortly  afterwards.  The  author  never  laid  aside  the 
intention  of  completing  it,  and  some  of  the  detached  parts  were 
among  his  latest  productions. 


Genius  of  musings,  who,  the  midnight  hour  • 

Wasting  in  woods  or  haunted  forests  wild, 

Dost  watch  Orion  in  his  arctic  tower, s 

Thy  dark  eye  fixed  as  in  some  holy  trance  ; 

Or,  when  the  volley' d  lightnings  cleave  the  air, 

And  Ruin  gaunt  bestrides  the  winged  storm, 

Sitt'st  in  some  lonely  watch-tower — where  tny  lamp, 

Eaint-blazing,  strikes  the  fisher's  eye  from  far, 

And  'mid  the  howl  of  elements,  unmov'd 

Dost  ponder  on  the  awful  scene,  and  trace 

The  vast  effect  to  its  superior  source, — 

Spirit  attend  my  lowly  benison  ! 

Tor  now  I  strike  to  themes  of  import  high 

The  solitary  lyre ;  and  borne  by  thee 

Above  this  narrow  cell,  I  celebrate 

The  mysteries  of  Time ! 

Sim  who,  august, 
Was  ere  these  worlds  were  fashioned, — ere  the  sun 
Sprang  from  the  east,  or  Lucifer  displayed 
His  glowing  cresset  on  the  arch  of  morn, 
Or  Yesper  gilded  the  serener  eve. 
Yea,  He  had  been  for  an  eternity ! 
Had  swept  unvarying  from  eternity 
TV  harp  of  desolation, — ere  his  tones 


POEMS  OP 


At  God's  command,  assumed  a  milder  strain, 
And  startled  on  his  watch,  in  the  vast  deep, 
Chaos's  sluggish  sentry,  and  evoked 
From  the  dark  void  the  smiling  universe. 

Chain'd  to  the  grovelling  frailties  of  the  flesh 

Mere  mortal  man,  unpurged  from  earthly  dross, 

Cannot  survey,  with  fixed  and  steady  eye, 

The  dim  uncertain  gulf,  which  now  the  Muse 

Adventurous,  would  explore ; — but  dizzy  grown, 

He  topples  down  the  abyss. — If  he  would  scan 

The  fearful  chasm,  and  eaten  a  transient  glimpse 

Of  its  unfathomable  depths,  that  so 

His  mind  may  turn  with  double  joy  to  God, 

His  only  certainty  and  resting  place ; 

He  must  put  off  a  while  this  mortal  vest, 

And  learn  to  follow,  without  giddiness, 

To  heights  where  all  is  vision,  and  surprise, 

And  vague  conjecture. — He  must  waste  by  night 

The  studious  taper,  far  from  all  resort 

Of  crowds  and  folly,  in  some  still  retreat ; 

High  on  the  beetling  promontory's  crest, 

Or  in  the  caves  of  the  vast  wilderness, 

Where  compass'd  round  with  nature's  wildest  shapes, 

He  may  be  driven  to  centre  all  his  thoughts 

In  the  great  Architect,  who  lives  confest 

In  rocks,  and  seas,  and  solitary  wastes. 

So  has  divine  philosophy,  with  voice 

Mild  as  the  murmurs  of  the  moonlight  wave, 

Tutor' d  the  heart  of  him,  who  now  awakes, 

Touching  the  cords  of  solemn  minstrelsy, 

His  faint,  neglected  song — intent  to  snatch 

Some  vagrant  blossom  from  the  dangerous  steep 

Of  poesy,  a  bloom  of  such  an  hue, 

So  sober,  as  may  not  unseemly  suit 

With  Truth's  severer  brow ;  and  one  withaJ 

So  hardy  as  shall  brave  the  passing  wind 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


Uf  many  winters, — rearing  its  meek  head 

In  loveliness,  when  he  who  gather' d  it 

Is  number'd  with  the  generations  gone. 

Yet  not  to  me  hath  God's  good  providence 

Given  stndions  leisure,*  or  unbroken  thought, 

Such  as  he  owns, — a  meditative  man, 

Who  from  the  blush  of  morn  to  quiet  eve 

Ponders,  or  turns  the  page  of  wisdom  o'er, 

Par  from  the  busy  crowd's  tumultuous  din; 

From  noise  and  wrangling  far,  and  undisturb'd 

With  Mirth's  unholy  shouts.    Por  me  the  day 

Hath  duties  which  require  the  vigorous  hand 

Of  steadfast  application,  but  which  leave 

No  deep  improving  trace  upon  the  mind. 

But  be  the  day  another's ; — let  it  pass  ! 

The  night's  my  own  ! — They  cannot  steal  my  night ! 

When  Evening  lights  her  folding-star  on  high, 

I  live  and  breathe,  and  in  the  sacred  hours 

Of  quiet  and  repose  my  spirit  flies, 

Pree  as  the  morning,  o'er  the  realms  of  space, 

And  mounts  the  skies,  and  imps  her  wing  for  heave; 

Hence  do  I  love  the  sober-suited  maid ; 

Hence  Night's  my  friend,  my  mistress,  and  my  theme, 

And  she  shall  aid  me  now  to  magnify 

The  night  of  ages, — now  when  the  pale  ray 

Of  star-light  penetrates  the  studious  gloom, 

And  at  my  window  seated, — while  mankind  .  * 

Are  lock'd  in  sleep,  I  feel  the  freshening  breeze 

Of  stillness  blow,  while,  in  her  saddest  stole, 

Thought,  like  a  wakeful  vestal  at  her  shrine, 

Assumes  hex  wonted  sway. 

Behold  the  world 
Bests,  and  her  tired  inhabitants  have  paused 
Prom  trouble  and  turmoil.  The  widow  now 
Has  ceased  to  weep,  and  her  twin  orphans  lie 

*  The  author  was  then  in  an  attorney's  office. 
A  A 


354 


POEMS  OP 


Lock'd  in  each  arm,  partakers  of  her  rest.. 

The  man  of  sorrow  has  forgot  his  woes ; 

The  outcast  that  Ms  head  is  shelterless, 

His  griefs  unshared. — The  mother  tends  no  more 

Her  daughter's  dying  slumbers,  but,  surprised 

With  heaviness,  and  sunk  upon  her  couch, 

Dreams  of  her  bridals.   Even  the  hectic,  lulTd 

On  Death's  lean  arm  to  rest,  in  visions  wrapt, 

Crowning  with  hope's  bland  wreath  his  shuddering  nurse 

Poor  victim  !  smiles. — Silence  and  deep  repose 

Reign  o'er  the  nations ;  and  the  warning  voice 

Of  nature  utters  audibly  within 

The  general  moral : — tells  us  that  repose, 

Deathlike  as  this,  but  of  far  longer  span, 

Is  coming  on  us — that  the  weary  crowds 

Who  now  enjoy  a  temporary  calm, 

Shall  soon  taste  lasting  quiet,  wrapt  around 

With  grave-clothes ;  and  their  aching,  restless  heads 

Mouldering  in  holes  and  corners  unobserved, 

Till  the  last  trump  shall  break  their  sullen  sleep. 

Who  needs  a  teacher  to  admonish  him 

That  flesh  is  grass  ? — That  earthly  things  are  mist  ? 

What  are  our  joys  but  dreams  ?  and  what  our  hopes 

But  goodly  shadows  in  a  summer  cloud  ? 

There's  not  a  wind  that  blows  but  bears  with  it 

Some  rainbow  promise : — Not  a  moment  flies 

But  puts  its  sickle  in  the  fields  of  life, 

And  mows  its  thousands,  with  their  joys  and  cares. 

'Tis  but  as  yesterday  since  on  yon  stars, 

Which  now  I  view,  the  Chaldee  shepherd  *  gazed, 

In  his  mid-watch  observant,  and  disposed 

The  twinkling  hosts  as  fancy  gave  them  shape. 

Yet  in  the  interim  what  mighty  shocks 

Have  buffeted  mankind, — whole  nations  razed, — 

*  Ailodirg  to  the  first  astronomical  observations  made  by  the 
Chaldean  shepherds. 


HENIIY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


3 


Cities  made  desolate, — the  polish'd  sunk 
To  barbarism,  and  once  barbaric  states 
Swaying  the  wand  of  science  and  of  arts ; 
Illustrious  deeds  and  memorable  names 
Blotted  from  record,  and  upon  the  tongue 
Of  grey  tradition  voluble  no  more. 

Where  are  the  heroes  of  the  ages  past  ? 

Where  the  brave  chieftains,  where  the  mighty  ones 

Who  flourish' d  in  the  infancy  of  days  ? 

All  to  the  grave  gone  down.    On  their  fallen  fame 

Exulting,  mocking  at  the  pride  of  man, 

Sits  grim  Forgetfulness. — The  warrior's  arm 

Lies  nerveless  on  the  pillow  of  its  shame ; 

Hush'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quench' d  the  blaze 

Of  his  red  eye-ball. — Yesterday  his  name 

Was  mighty  on  the  earth. — To-day — 'tis  what  ? 

The  meteor  of  the  night  of  distant  years, 

That  flash'd  unnoticed,  save  by  wrinkled  eld, 

Musing  at  midnight  upon  prophecies, 

Who  at  her  lonely  lattice  saw  the  gleam 

Point  to  the  mist-poised  shroud,  then  quietly 

Closed  her  pale  lips,  and  locked  the  secret  up 

Safe  in  the  enamel's  treasures. 

0  how  weak 

Is  mortal  man !  how  trilling — how  confined 
His  scope  of  vision.   Puffed  with  confidence, 
His  phrase  grows  big  with  immortality, 
And  he,  poor  insect  of  a  summer's  day, 
Dreams  of  eternal  honours  to  his  name ; 
Of  endless  glory  and  perennial  bays. 
He  idly  reasons  of  eternity, 
As  of  the  train  of  ages, — when,  alas  \ 
Ten  thousand  thousand  of  his  centuries 
Are,  in  comparison  a  little  point, 
Too  trivial  for  accompt. — «— 0  it  is  strange, 
'Tis  passing  strange,  to  mark  Ins  fallacies ; 
Behold  him  proudly  view  some  pompous  pile, 
▲  a  2 


POEMS  OP 


Whose  high  dome  swells  to  emulate  the  skies, 
And  smile  and  say  my  name  shall  live  with  this 
'Till  Time  shall  be  no  more ;  while  at  his  feet, 
Yea,  at  his  very  feet  the  crumbling  dust 
Of  the  fallen  fabric  of  the  other  day, 
Preaches  the  solemn  lesson. — He  should  know, 
That  time  must  conquer.    That  the  loudest  blast 
That  ever  fill'd  Renown's  obstreperous  trump, 
Fades  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  and  expires. 
Who  lies  inhumed  in  the  terrific  gloom 
Of  the  gigantic  pyramid  ?  or  who 
Rear'd  its  huge  walls  !    Oblivion  laughs  and  says, 
The  prey  is  mine. — They  sleep,  and  never  more 
Their  names  shall  strike  upon  the  ear  of  man, 
Their  memory  burst  its  fetters. 

Where  is  Rome  ? 
She  lives  but  in  the  tale  of  other  times ; 
Her  proud  pavilions  are  the  hermit's  home ; 
And  her  long  colonnades,  her  public  walks, 
Now  faintly  echo  to  the  pilgrim's  feet 
Who  comes  to  muse  in  solitude,  and  trace, 
Through  the  rank  moss  reveal5 d,  her  honour' d  dust, 
But  not  to  Rome  alone  has  fate  confined 
The  doom  of  ruin ;  cities  numberless, 
Tyre,  Sidon,  Carthage,  Babylon,  and  Troy, 
And  rich  Phoenicia — they  are  blotted  out, 
Half -razed  from  memory,  and  their  very  name 
And  being  in  dispute. — Has  Athens  fallen  ? 
Is  polished  Greece  become  the  savage  seat 
Of  ignorance  and  sloth  ?  and  shall  we  dare 

*         *         *  * 
And  empire  seeks  another  hemisphere. 
Where  now  is  Britain  ? — Where  her  laurelTd  names, 
Her  palaces  and  halls.    Dash'd  in  the  dust. 
Some  second  Vandal  hath  reduced  her  pride, 
And  with  one  big  recoil  hath  thrown  her  back 

To  primitive  barbarity.  Again, 

Through  her  depopulated  vales,  the  scream 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


357 


Of  bloody  superstition  hollow  rings, 

And  the  scarr'd  native  to  the  tempest  howls 

The  yell  of  deprecation.    O'er  her  marts 

Her  crowded  ports,  broods  Silence ;  and  the  cry 

Of  the  low  curlew,  and  the  pensive  dash 

Of  distant  billows,  breaks  alone  the  void. 

Even  as  the  savage  sits  upon  the  stone 

That  marks  where  stood  her  capitols,  and  hears 

The  bittern  booming  in  the  weeds,  he  shrinks 

Prom  the  dismaying  solitude. — Her  bards 

Sing  in  a  language  that  hath  perished ; 

And  their  wild  harps,  suspended  o'er  their  graves, 

Sigh  to  the  desert  winds  a  dying  strain. 

Meanwhile  the  arts,  in  second  infancy, 

Rise  in  some  distant  clime  and  then  perchance 

Some  bold  adventurer,  filled  with  golden  dreams, 

Steering  his  bark  through  trackless  solitudes, 

Where,  to  his  wandering  thoughts,  no  daring  prow 

Hath  ever  ploughed  before, — espies  the  cliffs 

Of  fallen  Albion. — To  the  land  unknown 

He  journeys  joyful;  and  perhaps  descries 

Some  vestige  of  her  ancient  stateliness ; 

Then  he,  with  vain  conjecture,  fills  his  mind 

Of  the  unheard  of  race,  which  had  arrived 

At  science  in  that  solitary  nook, 

Ear  from  the  civil  world :  and  sagely  sighs 

And  moralizes  on  the  state  of  man. 

Still  on  its  march,  unnoticed  and  unfelt, 
Moves  on  our  being.    We  do  live  and  breathe, 
And  we  are  gone.    The  spoiler  heeds  us  not. 
We  have  our  spring-time  and  our  rottenness ; 
And  as  we  fall,  another  race  succeeds 
To  perish  likewise. — Meanwhile  nature  smiles — 
The  seasons  run  their  round — the  sun  fulfils 
His  annual  course — and  heaven  and  earth  remain 
Still  changing,  yet  unchanged — still  doom'd  to  feel 


POEMS  OP 


Endless  mutation  in  perpetual  rest. 

Where  are  conceal' d  the  days  which  have  elapsed  ? 

Hid  in  the  mighty  cavern  of  the  past, 

They  rise  upon  us  only  to  appal, 

By  indistinct  and  half-glimpsed  images, 

Misty,  gigantic,  huge,  obscure,  remote. 

Oh  it  is  fearful,  on  the  midnight  couch, 

When  the  rude  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 

And  the  pale  moon,  that  through  the  casement  high 

Surveys  the  sleepless  muser,  stamps  the  hour 

Of  utter  silence,  it  is  fearful  then 

To  steer  the  mind,  in  deadly  solitude, 

Up  the  vague  stream  of  probability  : 

To  wind  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  past. 

And  turn  the  key  of  time ! — Oh  who  can  strive 

To  comprehend  the  vast,  the  awful  truth, 

Of  the  eternity  that  hath  gone  by, 

And  not  recoil  from  the  dismaying  sense 

Of  human  impotence  ?    The  life  of  man 

Is  summ'd  in  birth-days  and  in  sepulchres ; 

But  the  Eternal  God  had  no  beginning ; 

He  hath  no  end.    Time  had  been  with  lrim 

Eor  everlasting,  ere  the  daedal  world 

Bose  from  the  gulf  in  loveliness. — Like  him 

It  knew  no  source,  like  him  'twas  uncreate. 

What  is  it  then  ?    The  past  Eternity  ! 

We  comprehend  &  future  without  end ; 

We  feel  it  possible  that  even  yon  sun 

May  roll  for  ever ;  but  we  shrink  amazed— 

We  stand  aghast,  when  we  reflect  that  Time 

Knew  no  commencement. — That  heap  age  on  age* 

And  million  upon  million,  without  end, 

And  we  shall  never  span  the  void  of  days 

That  were,  and  are  not  but  in  retrospect. 

The  Past  is  an  unfathomable  depth, 

Beyond  the  span  of  thought ;  'tis  an  elapse 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


359 


Which  hath  no  mensuration,  but  hath  been 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Change  of  days 
To  us  is  sensible ;  and  each  revolve 
Of  the  recording  sun  conducts  us  on 
Further  in  life,  and  nearer  to  our  goal. 
Not  so  with  Time, — mysterious  chronicler, 
He  knoweth  not  mutation ; — centuries 
Are  to  his  being  as  a  day,  and  days 
As  centuries. — Time  past,  and  Time  to  come, 
Are  always  equal ;  when  the  world  began 
God  had  existed  from  eternity. 

%  «  #  $ 

Now  look  on  man 
Myriads  of  ages  hence. — Hath  time  elapsed ! 
Is  he  not  standing  in  the  self-same  place 
Where  once  we  stood ! — The  same  Eternity 
Hath  gone  before  him,  and  is  yet  to  come : 
His  past  is  not  of  longer  span  than  ours, 
Though  myriads  of  ages  intervened ; 
Eor  who  can  add  to  what  has  neither  sum, 
Nor  bound,  nor  source,  nor  estimate,  nor  end! 
Oh,  who  can  compass  the  Almighty  mind  ? 
Who  can  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  High  ? 
In  speculations  of  an  altitude, 
Sublime  as  this,  our  reason  stands  contest 
Foolish,  and  insignificant,  and  mean. 
Who  can  apply  the  futile  argument 
Of  finite  beings  to  infinity  ? 
He  might  as  well  compress  the  universe 
Into  the  hollow  compass  of  a  gourd, 
Scooped  out  by  human  art ;  or  bid  the  whale 
Drink  up  the  sea  it  swims  in. — Can  the  less 
Contain  the  greater  ?  or  the  dark  obscure 
Infold  the  glories  of  meridian  day  ? 
What  does  philosophy  impart  to  man 
But  undiscovered  wonders  ? — Let  her  soar 


POEMS  OF 


Even  to  her  proudest  heights, — to  where  she  caught 

The  soul  of  Newton  and  of  Socrates, 

She  but  extends  the  scope  of  wild  amaze 

And  admiration.    All  her  lessons  end 

In  wider  views  of  God's  unfathom'd  depths. 

Lo  !  the  unletter'd  hind  w^ho  never  knew 
To  raise  his  mind  excursive,  to  the  heights 
Of  abstract  contemplation ;  as  he  sits 
On  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedgerow  side, 
What  time  the  insect  swarms  are  murmuring, 
And  marks,  in  silent  thought,  the  broken  clouds 
That  fringe,  with  loveliest  hues,  the  evening  sky, 
Jeels  in  his  soul  the  hand  of  nature  rouse 
The  thrill  of  gratitude,  to  him  who  form'd 
The  goodly  prospect ;  he  beholds  the  God 
Throned  in  the  west ;  and  his  reposing  ear 
Hears  sounds  angelic  in  the  fitful  breeze, 
That  floats  through  neighbouring  copse  or  fairy  brake, 
Or  lingers  playful  on  the  haunted  stream. 
Go  with  the  cotter  to  his  winter  fire, 
Where  o'er  the  moors  the  loud  blast  whistles  shrill, 
And  the  hoarse  ban-dog  bays  the  icy  moon ; 
Mark  with  what  awe  he  lists  the  wild  uproar, 
Silent,  and  big  with  thought ;  and  hear  him  bless 
The  God  that  rides  on  the  tempestuous  clouds 
Eor  his  snug  hearth,  and  all  his  little  joys. 
Hear  him  compare  his  happier  lot  with  his 
Who  bends  his  way  across  the  wintry  wolds, 
A  poor  night-traveller,  while  the  dismal  snow 
Beats  in  his  face,  and,  dubious  of  his  path, 
He  stops,  and  thinks,  in  every  lengthening  blast, 
He  hears  some  village  mastiff's  distant  howl, 
And  sees,  far  streaming,  some  lone  cottage  li^ht ; 
Then,  undeceived,  upturns  his  streaming  eyes, 
And  clasps  his  shivering  hands ;  or,  overpower' d, 
Sinks  on  the  frozen  ground,  weigh' d  down  with  sleep, 
Erom  which  the  hapless  wretch  shall  never  wake. 
Thus  the  poor  rustic  warms  his  heart  with  praise 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 

And  glowing  gratitude, — He  turns  to  bless, 

With  honest  warmth,  his  Maker  and  his  God. 

And  shall  it  e'er  be  said,  that  a  poor  hind, 

Nursed  in  the  lap  of  Ignorance,  and  bred, 

In  want  and  labour,  glows  with  nobler  zeal 

To  laud  his  Maker's  attributes,  while  he 

Whom  starry  science  in  her  cradle  rock'd, 

And  Castaly  enchasten'd  with  its  dews, 

Closes  his  eyes  upon  the  holy  word ; 

And,  blind  to  all  but  arrogance  and  pride, 

Dares  to  declare  his  infidelity, 

And  openly  contemn  the  Lord  of  Hosts ! 

What  is  philosophy,  if  it  impart 

Irreverence  for  the  Deity — or  teach 

A  mortal  man  to  set  his  judgment  up 

Against  his  Maker's  will  ? — The  Polygar, 

Who  kneels  to  sun  or  moon,  compared  with  him 

Who  thus  perverts  the  talents  he  enjoys, 

Is  the  most  bless'd  of  men  ! — Oh  !  I  would  walk 

A  weary  journey  to  the  furthest  verge 

Of  the  big  world,  to  kiss  that  good  man's  hand, 

Who,  in  the  blaze  of  wisdom  and  of  art, 

Preserves  a  lowly  mind ;  and  to  his  God, 

Feeling  the  sense  of  his  own  littleness, 

Is  as  a  child  in  meek  simplicity ! 

What  is  the  pomp  of  learning  ?  the  parade 

Of  letters  and  of  tongues  ?    E'en  as  the  mists 

Or  the  grey  morn  before  the  rising  sun, 

That  pass  away  and  perish. 

Earthly  things 
Are  but  the  transient  pageants  of  an  hour ; 
And  earthly  pride  is  like  the  passing  flower, 
That  springs  to  fall,  and  blossoms  but  to  die. 
'Tis  as  the  tower  erected  on  a  cloud, 
Baseless  and  silly  as  the  school-boy's  dream. 
Ages  and  epochs  that  destroy  our  pride, 
And  then  record  its  downfal,  what  are  they 
But  the  poor  creatures  of  man's  teeming  brain  f 
Hath  Heaven  its  ages ;  or  doth  Heaven  preserve 


362 


POEMS  OF 


Its  stated  zeras  ?    Doth  the  Omnipotent 

Hear  of  to-morrows  or  of  yesterdays  ? 

There  is  to  God  nor  future  nor  a  past : 

Throned  in  his  might,  all  times  to  him  are  present  5 

He  hath  no  lapse,  no  past,  no  time  to  come ; 

He  sees  before  him  one  eternal  now. 

Time  moveth  not ! — our  being  'tis  that  moves ; 

And  we,  swift  gliding  down  life's  rapid  stream, 

Dream  of  swift  ages  and  revolving  years, 

Ordain' d  to  chronicle  our  passing  days : 

So  the  young  sailor  in  the  gallant  bark, 

Scudding  before  the  wind,  beholds  the  coast 

Receding  from  his  eyes,  and  thinks  the  while, 

Struck  with  amaze,  that  he  is  motionless, 

And  that  the  land  is  sailing. 

Such,  alas ! 
Are  the  illusions  of  this  proteus  life  ! 
All,  all  is  false. — Through  every  phasis  still 
'Tis  shadowy  and  deceitful. — It  assumes 
The  semblances  of  things,  and  specious  shapes ; 
But  the  lost  traveller  might  as  soon  rely 
On  the  evasive  spirit  of  the  marsh, 
Whose  lantern  beams,  and  vanishes,  and  flits, 
O'er  bog,  and  rock,  and  pit,  and  hollow-way, 
As  we  on  its  appearances. 

On  earth 

There  is  nor  certainty,  nor  stable  hope. 

As  well  the  weary  mariner,  whose  bark 

Is  toss'd  beyond  Cimmerian  Bosphorus, 

Where  storm  and  darkness  hold  their  drear  domain, 

And  sunbeams  never  penetrate,  might  trust 

To  expectation  of  serener  skies, 

And  linger  in  the  very  jaws  of  death, 

Because  some  peevish  cloud  were  opening, 

Or  the  loud  storm  had  bated  in  its  rage ; 

As  we  look  forward  in  this  vale  of  tears 

To  permanent  delight — from  some  slight  glimpse 

Of  shadowy,  unsubstantial  happiness. 


HENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 


363 


The  good  man's  hope  is  laid  far,  far  beyond 

The  sway  of  tempests,  or  the  furious  sweep 

Of  mortal  desolation.— He  beholds, 

Unapprehensive,  the  gigantic  stride 

Of  rampant  ruin,  or  the  unstable  waves 

Of  dark  vicissitude. — Even  in  death, 

In  that  dread  hour,  when,  with  a  giant  pang, 

Tearing  the  tender  fibres  of  the  heart, 

The  immortal  spirit  struggles  to  be  free, 

Then,  even  then,  that  hope  forsakes  him  not, 

Tor  it  exists  beyond  the  narrow  verge 

Of  the  cold  sepulchre. — The  petty  joys 

Of  fleeting  life  indignantly  it  spurn' d, 

And  rested  on  the  bosom  of  its  God. 

This  is  man's  only  reasonable  hope  ; 

And  'tis  a  hope  which,  cherish' d  in  the  breast, 

Shall  not  be  disappointed. — Even  He, 

The  Holy  One — Almighty — who  elanced 

The  rolling  world  along  its  airy  way ; 

Even  he  will  deign  to  smile  upon  the  good, 

And  welcome  him  to  these  celestial  seats, 

Where  joy  and  gladness  hold  their  changeless  reign. 

Thou  proud  man  look  upon  yon  starry  vault, 

Survey  the  countless  gems  which  richly  stud 

The  night's  imperial  chariot ; — Telescopes 

Will  show  the  myriads  more,  innumerous 

As  the  sea-sand ; — Each  of  those  little  lamps 

Is  the  great  source  of  light,  the  central  sun 

Round  which  some  other  mighty  sisterhood 

Of  planets  travel, — Every  planet  stock'd 

With  living  beings  impotent  as  thee. 

Now,  proud  man — now,  where  is  thy  greatness  fled  ? 

What  art  thou  in  the  scale  of  universe  ? 

Less,  less  than  noiaing  !— Yet  of  thee  the  God 

Who  built  this  wondrous  frame  of  worlds  is  careful, 

As  well  as  of  the  mendicant  who  begs 

The  leavings  of  thy  table.    And  shalt  thou 


364 


POEMS  OF 


Lift  up  thy  thankless  spirit,  and  contemn 
His  heavenly  providence !    Deluded  fool, 
Even  now  the  thunderbolt  is  wing'd  with  death, 
Even  now  thou  totterest  on  the  brink  of  Hell. 

How  insignificant  is  mortal  man, 

Bound  to  the  hasty  pinions  of  an  hour ! 

How  poor,  how  trivial  in  the  vast  conceit 

Of  infinite  duration,  boundless  space  ! 

God  of  the  universe — Almighty  One — 

Thou  who  dost  walk  upon  the  winged  winds, 

Or  with  the  storm,  thy  rugged  charioteer, 

Swift  and  impetuous  as  the  northern  blast, 

Eldest  from  pole  to  pole ; — Thou  who  dost  hold 

The  forked  lightnings  in  thine  awful  grasp, 

And  reinest-in  the  earthquake,  when  thy  wrath 

Goes  down  towards  erring  man, — I  would  address 

To  thee  my  parting  paean ;  for  of  thee, 

Great  beyond  comprehension,  who  thyself 

Art  time  and  space,  sublime  infinitude, 

Of  thee  has  been  my  song  ! — With  awe  I  kneel 

Trembling  before  the  footstool  of  thy  state, 

My  God,  my  Father  ! — I  will  sing  to  thee 

A  hymn  of  laud,  a  solemn  canticle, 

Ere  on  the  cypress  wreath,  which  overshades 

The  throne  of  Death,  I  hang  my  mournful  lyre, 

And  give  its  wild  strings  to  the  desert  gale. 

Bise,  son  of  Salem,  rise,  and  join  the  strain, 

Sweep  to  accordant  tones  thy  tuneful  harp, 

And,  leaving  vain  laments,  arouse  thy  soul 

To  exultation.    Sing  hosamia,  sing, 

And  halleluiah,  for  the  Lord  is  great, 

And  full  of  mercy  !    He  has  thought  of  man ; 

Yea,  compass'd  round  with  countless  worlds,  has  thought 

Of  we  poor  worms,  that  batten  in  the  dews 

Of  morn,  and  perish  ere  the  noonday  sun. 

Sing  to  the  Lord,  for  he  is  merciful ; 

He  gave  the  Nubian  lion  but  to  live, 


xifiNKY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


365 


To  rage  its  hour  and  perish ;  but  on  man 

He  lavish' d  immortality,  and  Heaven. 

The  eagle  falls  from  her  aerial  tower, 

And  mingles  with  irrevocable  dust ; 

But  man  from  death  springs  joyful, 

Springs  up  to  life  and  to  eternity. 

Oh  that,  insensate  of  the  favouring  boon, 

The  great  exclusive  privilege  bestow' d 

On  us  unworthy  trifles,  men  should  dare 

To  treat  with  slight  regard  the  proffer' d  heaven, 

And  urge  the  lenient,  but  All- Just,  to  swear 

In  wrath,  "  They  shall  not  enter  in  my  rest ! " 

Might  I  address  the  supplicative  strain 

To  thy  high  footstool,  I  would  pray  that  thou 

Wouldst  pity  the  deluded  wanderers, 

And  fold  them,  ere  they  perish,  in  thy  flock. 

Yea,  I  would  bid  thee  pity  them,  through  him, 

Thy  well-beloved,  who,  upon  the  cross, 

Bled  a  dread  sacrifice  for  human  sin, 

And  paid,  with  bitter  agony,  the  debt 

Of  primitive  transgression. 

Oh!  I  shrink, 
My  very  soul  doth  shrink,  when  I  reflect 
That  the  time  hastens,  when,  in  vengeance  clothed, 
Thou  shalt  come  down  to  stamp  the  seal  of  fate 
On  erring  mortal  man.  .  Thy  chariot  wheels 
Then  shall  rebound  to  earth's  remotest  caves, 
And  stormy  Ocean  from  his  bed  shall  start 
At  the  appalling  summons.    Oh  !  how  dread 
On  the  dark  eye  of  miserable  man, 
Chasing  his  sins  in  secrecy  and  gloom, 
Will  burst  the  effulgence  of  the  opening  heaven ; 
When  to  the  brazen  trumpet's  deafening  roar, 
Thou  and  thy  dazzling  cohorts  shall  descend, 
Proclaiming  the  fulfilment  of  the  word  ! 
The  dead  shall  start  astonish' d  from  their  sleep  ! 
The  sepulchres  shall  groan  and  yield  their  prey, 
The  bellowing  floods  shall  disembogue  their  charge 


366 


POEMS  OF 


Of  human  victims. — Erom  the  farthest  nook 
Of  the  wide  world  shall  troop  the  risen  souls, 
Erom  him  whose  bones  are  bleaching  in  the  waste 
Of  polar  solitudes,  or  him  whose  corpse, 
Whelm'd  in  the  loud  Atlantic's  vexed  tides, 
Is  washed  on  some  Caribbean  prominence, 
To  the  lone  tenant  of  some  secret  cell 
In  the  Pacific's  vast    *    *   *  realm, 
Where  never  plummet's  sound  was  heard  to  part 
The  wilderness  of  water ;  they  shall  come 
To  greet  the  solemn  advent  of  the  Judge. 

Thou  first  shalt  summon  the  elected  saints 

To  their  apportion' d  heaven ;  and  thy  Son, 

At  thy  right  hand  shall  smile  with  conscious  joy 

On  all  his  past  distresses,  when  for  them 

He  bore  humanity's  severest  pangs. 

Then  shalt  thou  seize  the  avenging  scimitar, 

And,  with  a  roar  as  loud  and  horrible 

As  the  stern  earthquake's  monitory  voice, 

The  wicked  shall  be  driven  to  their  abode, 

Down  the  immitigable  gulf,  to  wail 

And  gnash  their  teeth  in  endless  agony. 

*  •  sc- 

Uear  thou  aloft  thy  standard. — Spirit  rear 
Thy  flag  on  high ! — Invincible,  and  throned 
In  unparticipated  might.  Behold 
Earth's  proudest  boast,  beneath  thy  silent  sway, 
Sweep  headlong  to  destruction,  thou  the  while, 
Unmoved  and  heedless,  thou  dost  hear  the  rush 
Of  mighty  generations,  as  they  pass 
*  To  the  broad  gulf  of  ruin,  and  dost  stamp 

Thy  signet  on  tnem,  and  they  rise  no  more. 
Who  shall  contend  with  Time — unvanquish'd  Time, 
The  conqueror  of  conquerors,  and  lord 
Of  desolation  ? — Lo !  the  shadows  fly, 
The  hours  and  days,  and  years  and  centuries, 
They  fly,  they  fly,  and  nations  rise  and  fall. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


3GT 


The  young  are  old,  the  old  are  in  their  graves. 
Heardst  thou  that  shout  ?    It  rent  the  vaulted  skies 
It  was  the  voice  of  people, — mighty  crowds, — 
Again !  'tis  hush'd — Time  speaks,  and  all  is  hush'd ; 
In  the  vast  multitude  now  reigns  alone 
Unruffled  solitude.    They  all  are  still ; 
All — yea,  the  whole — the  incalculable  mass, 
Still  as  the  ground  that  clasps  their  cold  remains. 

Hear  thou  aloft  thy  standard. — Spirit  rear 

Thy  flag  on  high;  and  glory  in  thy  strength. 

But  do  thou  know,  the  season  yet  shall  come, 

When  from  its  base  thine  adamantine  throne 

Shall  tumble ;  when  thine  arm  shall  cease  to  strike, 

Thy  voice  forget  its  petrifying  power ; 

"When  saints  shall  shout,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more.. 

Yea,  he  doth  come — the  mighty  champion  comes, 

Whose  potent  spear  shall  give  thee  thy  death-wound, 

Shall  crush  the  conqueror  of  conquerors, 

And  desolate  stern  desolation's  lord. 

Lo  !  where  he  cometh !  the  Messiah  comes ! 

The  King !  the  Comforter !  the  Christ  I— He  comes 

To  burst  the  bonds  of  death,  and  overturn 

The  power  of  Time. — Hark  !  the  trumpet's  blast 

Rings  o'er  the  heavens  ! — They  rise,  the  myriads  rise — 

Even  from  their  graves  they  spring,  and  burst  the  chains 

Of  torpor. — He  has  ransomed  them,    *  * 

Forgotten  generations  live  agani, 

Assume  the  bodily  shapes  tney  own'd  of  old, 

Beyond  the  flood : — the  righteous  of  their  times 

Embrace  and  weep,  they  weep  the  tears  of  joy. 

The  sainted  mother  wakes,  and,  in  her  lap, 

Clasps  her  dear  babe,  the  partner  of  her  grave, 

And  heritor  with  her  of  Heaven, — a  flower 

Wash'd  by  the  blood  of  Jesus  from  the  stain 

Of  native  guilt,  even  in  its  early  bud. 

And  hark !  those  strains,  how  solemnly  sereno 


368 


POEMS  OF  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


They  fall,  as  from  the  skies — at  distance  fall — 

Again  more  loud ;  the  hallelujahs  swell ; 

The  newly -risen  catch  the  joyful  sound ; 

They  glow,  they  burn :  and  now,  with  one  accord, 

Bursts  forth  sublime  from  every  r±outh  the  song 

Of  praise  to  God  on  high,  and  to  the  Lamb 

Who  bled  for  mortals. 

Yet  there  is  peace  for  man. — Yea,  there  is  peace, 

Even  in  this  noisy,  this  unsettled  scene ; 

When  from  the  crowd,  and  from  the  city  far, 

Haply  he  may  be  set  (in  his  late  walk 

O'ertaken  with  deep  thought)  beneath  the  bows 

Of  honeysuckle,  when  the  sun  is  gone, 

And  with  fix'd  eye,  and  wistful,  he  surveys 

The  solemn  shadows  of  the  heavens  sail, 

And  thinks  the  season  yet  shall  come,  when  Time 

Will  waft  him  to  repose,  to  deep  repose, 

Far  from  the  unquietness  of  life — from  noise 

And  tumult  far — beyond  the  flying  clouds, 

Beyond  the  stars,  and  all  this  passing  scene, 

Where  change  shall  cease,  and  Time  shall  be  no  *iGrs. 


369 


THE  CHRISTIAD. 

8  Motne  ^oem. 


This  was  the  work  which  the  author  had  most  at  heart.  His  riper 
judgment  would  probably  have  perceived  that  the  subject  was  ill 
chosen.  What  is  said  so  well  in  the  Censura  Literaria  of  all 
scriptural  subjects  for  narrative  poetry,  applies  peculiarly  to  this. 
"Anything  taken  from  it  leaves  the  story  imperfect;  anything 
added  to  it  disgusts,  and  almost  shocks  us  as  impious.  As  Omar 
said  of  the  Alexandrian  Library,  we  may  say  of  such  writings,  if 
they  contain  only  what  is  in  the  scriptures  they  are  superfluous; 
if  what  is  not  in  them  they  are  false." — It  may  be  added,  that  the 
mixture  of  mythology  makes  truth  itself  appear  fabulous. 

There  is  great  power  in  the  execution  of  this  fragment. — In  editing 
these  remains,  I  have,  with  that  decorum  which  it  is  to  be  wished 
all  editors  would  observe,  abstained  from  informing  the  reader 
what  he  is  to  admire  and  what  he  is  not ;  but  I  cannot  refrain 
from  saying,  that  the  two  last  stanzas  greatly  affected  me,  when 
I  discovered  them  written  on  the  leaf  of  a  different  book,  and 
apparently  long  after  the  first  canto ;  and  greatly  shall  I  be  mis- 
taken,  if  they  do  not  affect  the  reader  also 


8  8 


THE  CHRISTIAN 


BOOK  I. 


I  sixg  the  Cuoss  ! — Ye  white  robed  angel  choirs, 
Who  know  the  chords  of  harmony  to  sweep ; 

Ye  who  o'er  holy  David's  varying  wires, 

Were  wont  of  old  your  hovering  watch  to  keep, 
Oh,  now  descend !  and  with  your  harpings  deep, 

Pouring  sublime  the  full  symphonious  stream 
Of  music, — such  as  soothes  the  saint's  last  sleep, 

Awake  my  slumbering  spirit  from  its  dream, 
And  teach  me  how  to  exalt  the  high  mysterious  theme. 

ii. 

Mourn !  Salem,  mourn !  low  lies  thine  humbled  state, 
Thy  glittering  fanes  are  levell'd  with  the  ground ! 

Fallen  is  thy  pride  ! — Thine  halls  are  desolate ! 
Where  erst  was  heard  the  timbrel's  sprightly  sounds 
And  frolic  pleasures  tripp'd  the  nightly  round, 

There  breeds  the  wild  fox  lonely, — and  aghast 
Stands  the  mute  pilgrim  at  the  void  profound, 

Unbroke  by  noise,  save  when  the  hurrying  blast 
Sighs,  like  a  spirit,  deep  a!ong  the  cheerless  waste. 

in. 

It  is  for  this,  proud  Solyma !  thy  towers 
Lie  crumbling  in  the  dust;  for  this  forlorn 

Thy  genius  wails  along  thy  desert  bowers, 
While  stern  destruction  laughs,  as  if  in  scorn, 
That  thou  didst  dare  insult  God's  eldest-born ; 


POEMS  OP  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE.  371 


And,  with  most  bitter  persecuting  ire, 

Pursued  his  footsteps  till  the  last  day-dawn 
Rose  on  his  fortunes— and  thou  saw'st  the  fire 
That  came  to  light  the  world  in  one  great  flash  expire. 

IV. 

Oh !  for  a  pencil  dipt  in  living  light, 

To  paint  the  agonies  that  Jesus  bore ! 
Oh!  for  the  long  lost  harp  of  Jesse's  might, 

To  hymn  the  Saviour's  praise  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

While  seraph  hosts  the  lofty  psean  pour, 
And  heaven  enraptur'd  lists  the  loud  acclaim ! 

May  a  frail  mortal  dare  the  theme  explore  ? 
May  he  to  human  ears  his  weak  song  frame  ? 
Oh  !  may  he  dare  to  sing  Messiah's  glorious  name  ? 

v. 

Spirits  of  pity  !  mild  Crusaders  come ! 

Buoyant  on  clouds  around  your  minstrel  float  j 
And  give  him  eloquence  who  else  were  dumb, 

And  raise  to  feeling  and  to  fire  his  note ! 

And  thou  Urania !  who  dost  still  devote 
Thy  nights  and  days  to  God's  eternal  shrine, 

Whose  mild  eyes  'lumined  what  Isaiah  wrote, 
Throw  o'er  thy  bard  that  solemn  stole  of  thine, 
And  clothe  him  for  the  fight  with  energy  divine. 

VI. 

When  from  the  temple's  lofty  summit  prone, 

Satan  o'ercome,  fell  down ;  and  'throned  therOj, 
The  Son  of  God  confest,  in  splendour  shone : 
Swift  as  the  glancing  sunbeam  cuts  the  air, 
Mad  with  defeat,  and  yelling  his  despair, 

*         *         *  * 
Eled  the  stern  king  of  Hell — and  with  the  glare 
Of  gliding  meteors,  ominous  and  red, 
Shot  athwart  the  clouds  that  gather' d  round  his  head 

BB  2 


372 


POEMS  OP 


VII. 

Right  o'er  the  Euxine,  and  that  gulph  which  late 

The  rude  Massagetse  adored — he  bent 
His  northering  course, — while  round,  in  dusky  state, 

The  assembling  fiends  their  summon' d  troops  augment 

Clothed  in  dark  mists,  upon  their  way  they  went, 
While  as  they  pass'd  to  regions  more  severe, 

The  Lapland  sorcerer  swell' d,  with  loud  lament, 
The  solitary  gale,  and,  filled  with  fear, 
The  howling  dogs  bespoke  unholy  spirits  near. 

VIII. 

Where  the  North  Pole,  in  moody  solitude, 

Spreads  her  huge  tracks  and  frozen  wastes  around ; 

There  ice-rocks  piled  aloft,  in  order  rude, 
Eorm  a  gigantic  hall ;  where  never  sound 
Startled  dull  Silence'  ear,  save  when  profound, 

The  smoke-frost  mutter'd :  there  drear  Cold  for  aye 
'Thrones  him, — and  fixed  on  his  primaeval  mound, 

Ruin,  the  giant,  sits  ;  while  stern  Dismay 
Stalks  like  some  woe-struck  man  along  the  desert  way. 

IX. 

In  that  drear  spot,  grim  Desolation's  lair, 
No  sweet  remain  of  life  encheers  the  sight: 

The  dancing  heart's  blood  in  an  instant  there 

Would  freeze  to  marble. — Mingling  day  and  night, 
(Sweet  interchange  which  makes  our  labours  light,) 

Are  there  unknown ;  while  in  the  summer  skies 
The  sun  rolls  ceaseless  round  his  heavenly  height, 

Nor  ever  sets  till  from  the  scene  he  flies, 
And  leaves  the  long  bleak  night  of  half  the  year  to  rise. 

x. 

*Twas  there  yet  shuddering  from  the  burning  lake, 

Satan  had  fix'd  their  next  consistory ; 
When  parting  last  he  fondly  hoped  to  shake 

Messiah's  constancy, — And  thus  to  free 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


373 


The  powers  of  darkness  from  the  dread  decree 
Of  bondage,  brought  by  him,  and  circumvent 

The  unerring  ways  of  him  whose  eye  can  see 
The  womb  of  Time,  and  in  its  embryo  pent, 
Discern  the  colours  clear  of  every  dark  event. 

XI. 

Here  the  stern  monarch  stayed  his  rapid  flight, 

And  his  thick  hosts,  as  with  a  jetty  pall, 
Hovering  obscured  the  north  star's  peaceful  light, 

Waiting  on  wing  their  haughty  chieftain's  call. 

He,  meanwhile,  downward,  with  a  sullen  fall, 
Dropt  on  the  echoing  ice.    Instant  the  sound 

Of  their  broad  vans  was  hush'd,  and  o'er  the  hall, 
Vast  and  obscure,  the  gloomy  cohorts  bound, 
Till,  wedged  in  ranks,  the  seat  of  Satan  they  surround. 

XII. 

High  on  a  solium  of  the  solid  wave, 

Prankt  with  rude  shapes  by  the  fantastic  frost, 

He  stood  in  silence ; — now  keen  thoughts  engrave 
Dark  figures  on  his  front ;  and  tempest  tost, 
He  fears  to  say  that  every  hope  is  lost. 

Meanwhile  the  multitude  as  death  are  mute : 
So  ere  the  tempest  on  Molacca's  coast, 

Sweet  Quiet,  gently  touching  her  soft  lute, 
Sings  to  the  whispering  waves  the  prelude  to  dispute. 

XIII. 

At  length  collected,  o'er  the  dark  Divan, 
The  arch  fiend  glanced,  as  by  the  Boreal  blaze 

Their  downcast  brows  were  seen, — and  thus  began 
His  fierce  harangue  : — "  Spirits !  our  better  days 
Are  now  elapsed ;  Moloch  and  Belial's  praise 

Shall  sound  no  more  in  groves  by  myriads  trod. 

Lo  !  the  light  breaks ! — The  astonished  nations  gaze ! 

For  us  is  lifted  high  the  avenging  rod ! 
For,  spirits,  this  is  He — this  is  the  Son  of  God ! 


374 


POEMS  OF 


XIV. 

"What  then! — shall  Satan's  spirit  crouch  to  fearP 
Shall  he  who  shook  the  pillars  of  God's  reign, 
Drop  from  his  unnerved  arm  the  hostile  spear ! 
Madness  !  The  very  thought  would  make  me  fain 
To  tear  the  spanglets  from  yon  gaudy  plain, 
And  hurl  them  at  their  Maker  ! — Fix'd  as  fate 

I  am  his  Toe ! — Yea,  though  his  pride  should  deign 
To  soothe  mine  ire  with  half  his  regal  state, 
Still  would  I  burn  with  lixt  unalterable  hate. 

»  xv. 

"  Now  hear  the  issue  of  my  curst  emprize, 
When  from  our  last  synod  I  took  flight, 
Buoy'd  with  false  hopes,  in  some  deep-laid  disguise, 
To  tempt  this  vaunted  Holy  One  to  write 
His  own  self-condemnation; — in  the  plight 
Of  aged  man  in  the  lone  wilderness, 

Gathering  a  few  stray  sticks,  I  met  his  sight; 
And  leaning  on  my  staff  seem'd  much  to  guess 
What  cause  could  mortal  bring  to  that  forlorn  recess. 

XVI. 

"Then  thus  in  homely  guise  I  featly  framed 

My  lowly  speech—'  Good  Sir,  what  leads  this  way 
Your  wandering  steps  ?  must  hapless  chance  be  blamed 
That  you  so  far  from  haunt  of  mortals  stray  ? 
Here  have  I  dwelt  for  many  a  lingering  day, 
Nor  trace  of  man  have  seen. —But  how  !  methought 

Thou  wert  the  youth  on  whom  God's  holy  ray 
I  saw  descend  in  Jordan,  when  John  taught 
That  he  to  fallen  man  the  saving  promise  brought.* 

XVII. 

u  'I  am  that  man/  said  Jesus ;  "  fI  am  he. 

But  truce  to  questions — Canst  thou  point  my  feefc 
To  some  low  hut,  if  haply  such  there  be 
In  this  wild  labyrinth,  where  I  may  meet 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE.  375 

With  homely  greeting,  and  may  sit  and  eat : 
For  forty  days  I  have  tarried  fasting  here, 

Hid  in  the  dark  glens  of  this  lone  retreat, 
And  now  I  hunger ;  and  my  fainting  ear 
Longs  much  to  greet  the  sound  of  fountains  gushing  neai.' 

XVIII. 

*'  Then  thus  I  answer' d  wily : — e  If,  indeed, 

Son  of  our  God  thou  be'st,  what  need  to  seek 
For  food  from  men  ? — Lo !  on  these  flint  stones  feed, 
Bid  them  be  bread !  Open  thy  lips  and  speak, 
And  living  rills  from  yon  parch'd  rock  will  break/ 
Instant  as  I  had  spoke,  his  piercing  eye 

Tix'd  on  my  face ;  the  blood  forsook  my  cheek, 
I  could  not  bear  his  gaze ;  my  mask  slipped  by ; 
I  would  have  shunn'd  his  look,  but  had  not  power  to  %. 

XIX. 

"  Then  he  rebuked  me  with  the  holy  word — 
Accursed  sounds  !  but  now  my  native  pride 
Pteturned,  and  by  no  foolish  qualm  deterr'd, 
I  bore  him  from  the  mountain's  woody  side, 
Up  to  f he  summit,  where  extending  wide 
Kingdoms  and  cities,  palaces  and  fanes, 

Bright  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams,  were  descried, 
And  in  gay  dance,  amid  luxuriant  plains, 
Tripp'd  to  the  jocund  reed  the  emasculated  swains. 

xx. 

u  '  Behold,'  I  cried,  '  these  glories  !  scenes  divine ! 
Thou  whose  sad  prime  in  pining  want  decays, 
And  these,  0  rapture  !  these  shall  all  be  thine, 
If  thou  wilt  give  to  me,  not  God,  the  praise. 
Hath  he  not  given  to  indigence  thy  days  ? 
Is  not  thy  portion  peril  here  and  pain  ? 

Oh !  leave  his  temples,  shun  his  wounding  ways ! 
Seize  the  tiara  !  these  mean  weeds  disdain, 
Kneel,  kneel,  thou  man  of  woe,  and  peace  and  splendour 
gain.' 


376 


POEMS  OF 


XXI. 

"  '  Is  it  not  written,'  sternly  he  replied, 

'  Tempt  not  the  Lord  thy  God?'  Erowning  he  spake, 
And  instant  sounds,  as  of  the  ocean  tide, 

Rose,  and  the  whirlwind  from  its  prison  brake, 
And  caught  me  up  aloft,  till  in  one  flake, 
The  sidelong  volley  met  my  swift  career, 

And  smote  me  earthward. — Jove  himself  might  quake 
At  such  a  fall ;  my  sinews  cracked,  and  near, 
Obscure,  and  dizzy  sounds  seemed  ringing  in  mine  ear. 


XXII. 

"  Senseless  and  stunn'd  I  lay ;  till  casting  round 
My  half  unconscious  gaze,  I  saw  the  foe 
Borne  on  a  car  of  roses  to  the  ground, 
By  volant  angels ;  and  as  sailing  slow 
He  sunk,  the  hoary  battlement  below, 
While  on  the  tall  spire  slept  the  slant  sunbeam, 
Sweet  on  the  enamour  d  zephyr  was  the  flow 
Of  heavenly  instruments.    Such  strains  oft  seem, 
.  On  starlight  hill,  to  soothe  the  Syrian  shepherd's  dream. 


XXIII. 

"I  saw  blaspheming.    Hate  renew'd  my  strength; 
I  smote  the  ether  with  my  iron  wing, 
And  left  the  accursed  scene. — Arrived  at  length 
In  these  drear  halls,  to  ye,  my  peers !  I  bring 
The  tidings  of  defeat.    Hell's  haughty  king 
Thrice  vanquish' d,  balfled,  smitten,  and  dismay'd ! 

0  shame  !    Is  this  the  hero  who  could  fling 
Defiance  at  his  Maker,  while  array'd, 
High  o'er  the  walls  of  light  rebellion's  banners  play'd ! 


XXIV. 

"  Yet  shall  not  Heaven's  bland  minions  triumph  long ; 
Hell  yet  shall  have  revenge. — 0  glorious  sight, 
Prophetic  visions  on  my  fancy  throng, 
I  see  wild  q,crony'?  lean  flnger  write 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


377 


Sad  figures  on  his  forehead ! — Keenly  bright 
Revenge's  flambeau  burns  !    Now  in  his  eyes 

Stand  the  hot  tears, — immantled  in  the  night, 
Lo  !  he  retires  to  mourn  ! — I  hear  his  cries, — 
He  faints — he  falls — and  lo ! — 'tis  true,  ye  powers,  he  dies.'* 

XXV. 

Thus  spake  the  chieftain, — and  as  if  he  view'd  . 

The  scene  he  pictured,  with  his  foot  advanced, 
And  chest  inflated,  motionless  he  stood, 

While  under  his  uplifted  shield  he  glanced, 

With  straining  eye-ball  fix'd,  like  one  entranced, 
On  viewless  air ; — thither  the  dark  platoon 

Gazed  wondering,  nothing  seen,  save  when  there  danced 
The  northern  flash,  or  fiend  late  fled  from  noon, 
Darken' d  the  disk  of  the  descending  moon. 

XXVI. 

Silence  crept  stilly  through  the  ranks. — The  breeze 
Spake  most  distinctly.    As  the  sailor  stands, 

When  all  the  midnight  gasping  from  the  seas 
Break  boding  sobs,  and  to  his  sight  expands 
High  on  the  shrouds  the  spirit  that  commands 

The  ocean-farer's  life ;  so  stiff — so  sere 

Stood  each  dark  power ; — while  through  their  nu- 
merous bands 

Beat  not  one  heart,  and  mingling  hope  and  fear 
Now  told  them  all  was  lost,  now  bade  revenge  appear. 

XXVII. 

One  there  was  there,  whose  loud  defying  tongue 
Nor  hope  nor  fear  had  silenced,  but  the  swell 

Of  over-boiling  malice.    Utterance  long 

His  passion  mock'd,  and  long  he  strove  to  tell 
His  labouring  ire ;  still  syllable  none  fell 

From  his  pale  quivering  lip,  but  died  away 
For  very  fury ;  from  each  hollow  cell 

Half  sprang  his  eyes,  that  cast  a  flamy  ray, 
And  ******* 


POEMS  OF 


XXVIII. 

"  This  comes,"  at  length  burst  from  the  furious  chief, 
"  This  comes  of  distant  counsels !    Here  behold 
The  fruits  of  wily  cunning !  the  relief 
Which  coward  policy  would  fain  unfold, 
To  soothe  the  powers  that  warr'd  with  Heaven  of  old? 
O  wise !  0  potent !  0  sagacious  snare  ! 

And  lo !  our  prince — the  mighty  and  the  bold, 
There  stands  he,  spell  struck,  gaping  at  the  air, 
While  Heaven  subverts  his  reign,  and  plants  her  standard 
there." 

XXIX. 

Here,  as,  recovered,  Satan  fixed  his  eye 

Full  on  the  speaker ;  dark  it  was  and  stern ; 

He  wrapt  his  black  vest  round  him  gloomily, 

And  stood  like  one  whom  weightiest  thoughts  concern* 
Him  Moloch  marked,  and  strove  again  to  turn 

His  soul  to  rage.    "  Behold,  behold,"  he  cried, 

"  The  lord  of  Hell,  who  bade  these  legions  spurn 

Almighty  rule — behold,  he  lays  aside 
The  spear  of  just  revenge,  and  shrinks,  by  man  defied.'*' 

XXX. 

Thus  ended  Moloch,  and  his  [burning]  tongue 
Hung  quivering,  as  if  [mad]  to  quench  its  heat 

In  slaughter.    So,  his  native  wilds  among, 
The  famish'd  tiger  pants,  when  near  his  seat, 
Press'd  on  the  sands,  he  marks  the  traveller's  feet. 

Instant  low  murmurs  rose,  and  many  a  sword 

Had  from  its  scabbard  sprung ;  but  toward  the  seat 

Of  the  arch-fiend  all  turn'd  with  one  accord, 
As  loud  he  thus  harangued  the  sanguinary  horde. 


*  *  *  41 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


37£> 


Ye  powers  of  Hell,  I  am  no  coward.  I  proved  this  of 
old ;  who  led  your  forces  against  the  armies  of  Jehovah  ?  Wha 
coped  with  Ithuriel,  and  the  thunders  of  the  Almighty?  Who, 
when  stunned  and  confused  ye  lay  on  the  burning  lake,  who* 
first  awoke,  and  collected  your  scattered  powers  ?  Lastly, 
who  led  you  across  the  unfathomable  abyss  to  this  delightful 
world,  and  established  that  reign  here  which  now  totters  tc 
its  base.  How,  therefore,  dares  yon  treacherous  fiend  to 
cast  a  stain  on  Satan's  bravery  ?  he  who  preys  only  on  the 
defenceless — who  sucks  the  blood  of  infants,  and  delights 
only  in  acts  of  ignoble  cruelty  and  unequal  contention.  Away 
with  the  boaster  who  never  joins  in  action,  but,  like  a  cor- 
morant, hovers  over  the  field,  to  feed  upon  the  wounded,  and 
overwhelm  the  dying.  True  bravery  is  as  remote  from  rash- 
ness as  from  hesitation;  let  us  counsel  coolly,  but  let  us 
execute  our  counselled  purposes  determinately.  In  power 
we  have  learnt,  by  that  experiment  which  lost  us  heaven, 
that  we  are  inferior  to  the  Thunder-bearer.  In  subtlety — • 
in  subtlety  alone  we  are  his  equals.    Open  war  is  impossible. 

*       *       #  * 

"  Thus  we  shall  pierce  our  Conqueror,  through  the  race 
Which  as  himself  he  loves ;  thus  if  we  fall, 

We  fall  not  with  the  anguish,  the  disgrace 
Of  falling  unrevenged.  The  stirring  call 
Of  vengeance  rings  within  me  !    Warriors  all, 

The  word  is  Vengeance,  aud  the  spur  Despair. 
Away  with  coward  wiles  ! — Death's  coal-black  pall 

Be  now  our  standard ! — Be  our  torch,  the  glare 
Of  cities  fired !  our  fifes,  the  shrieks  that  fill  the  air  ! >y 

Him  answering  rose  Mecashpim,  who  of  old, 

Ear  in  the  silence  of  Chaldea's  groves, 
Was  worshipped,  God  of  Eire,  with  charms  untold 

And  mystery.    His  wandering  spirit  loves, 

Now  vainly  searching  for  the  flame  it  roves, 
And  sits  and  mourns  like  some  white  robed  sire, 

Where  stood  his  temple,  and  where  fragrant  cloves- 
And  cinnamon  upheap'd  the  sacred  pyre, 
And  nightly  magi  watch' d  the  everlasting  fire. 


380  POEMS  OP  HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


He  waved  his  robe  of  flame,  he  cross' d  his  breast, 
And  sighing — his  papyrus  scarf  survey' d, 

Woven  with  dark  characters ;  then  thus  address'd 
The  troubled  counsel. 

*         *         «  * 


I. 

Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  theme 

With  self-rewarding  toil ; — thus  far  have  sung 
Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 

The  lyre,  which  I  in  early  days  have  strung ; 

And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  have  hung 
The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 

On  the  dark  cypress !  and  the  strings  which  rung 
With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o'er, 
Or  when  the  breeze  comes  by  moan  and  are  heard  no  more. 

And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again, 

Shall  I  no  more  re-animate  the  lay ! 
Oh  !  thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men, 

Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray, 

One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day ! 
One  little  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree  ! 

I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 
And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee, 
Ere  I  with  death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  am  free. 
*         *         *  • 


381 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS. 


REMARKS  ON  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

IMITATIONS. 

The  sublimity  and  unaffected  beauty  of  the  sacred  writings 
are  in  no  instance  more  conspicuous  than  in  the  following 
verses  of  the  18th  Psalm  : — 

"  He  bowed  the  heavens  also  and  came  down:  and  darkness  was 
under  his  feet. 

"  And  he  rode  upon  a  cherub  and  did  fly;  yea  he  did  fly  upon  the 
wings  of  the  wind." 

None  of  our  better  versions  have  been  able  to  preserve 
the  original  graces  of  these  verses.  That  wretched  one  of 
Thomas  Stemhold,  however  (which,  t6  the  disgrace  and 
manifest  detriment  of  religious  worship,  is  generally  used), 
has,  in  this  solitary  instance,  and  then  perhaps  by  accident, 
given  us  the  true  spirit  of  the  Psalmist,  and  has  surpassed 
not  only  Merrick,  but  even  the  classic  Buchanan.*  This 
version  is  as  follows : — 


*  That  the  reader  may  judge  for  himself,  Buchanan's  translation 
is  subjoined: — 

"  Utque  suum  dominum  terrae  demittat  in  crbem 
Leniter  inclinat  jussum  fastigia  coelum; 
Succedunt  pedibus  fuscae  caliginis  umbrae; 
Ille  vehens  curru  volucri,  cui  flammeus  ales 
Lora  tenens  levibus  ventorum  adremigat  alis 
Se  circum  fulvo  nebularum  involvit  amictu, 
Praetenditque  cavis  piceas  in  nubibus  undas." 

This  is  somewhat  too  harsh  and  prosaic,  and  there  is  an  unplea- 
sant cacophony  in  the  terminations  of  the  fifth  and  sixth  lines. 


382 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


"  The  Lord  descended  from  above, 
And  bowed  the  heavens  high, 
And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky. 

"  On  cherubs  and  on  cherubims 
Full  royally  he  rode, 
And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 
Came  flying  all  abroad." 

Dryden  honoured  these  verses  with  very  high  commend- 
ation, and,  in  the  following  lines  of  his  Annus  Mirabilis, 
has  apparently  imitated  them,  in  preference  to  the  original. 

"  The  duke  less  numerous,  but  in  courage  more, 
On  wings  of  all  the  winds  to  combat  flies." 

And  in  his  Ceyx  and  Alcyone,  from  Ovid,  he  has — 

"  And  now  sublime  she  rides  upon  the  wind." 

which  is  probably  imitated,  as  well  as  most  of  the  following, 
not  from  Sternhold,  but  the  original.    Thus  Pope, 

"  Not  God  alone  in  the  still  calm  we  find, 
He  mounts  the  storm  and  rides  upon  the  wind  " 

And  Addison — 

"  Rides  in  the  whirlwind  and  directs  the  storm." 

"The  unfortunate  Chatterton  has — 

"And  rides  upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind.* 

And  Gray — 

u  With  arms  sublime  that  float  upon  the  air.* 

Few  poets  of  eminence  have  less  incurred  the  charge  of 
plagiarism  than  Milton ;  yet  many  instances  might  be  adduced 
of  similarity  of  idea  and  language  with  the  Scripture,  which 
■axe  certainly  more  than  coincidences ;  and  some  of  these  I 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


383 


shall,  in  a  future  number,  present  to  your  readers.  Thus 
the  present  passage  in  the  Psalmist  was  in  all  probability 
in  his  mind  when  he  wrote — 

 "And  with  mighty  wings  outspread, 

Dove-like  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss." 

rar.  Lost,  1.  20,  b.  i. 

Tze  third  verse  of  the  104th  Psalm, 

"  He  maketh  the  ciouds  his  chariot,  and  walketh  upon  the  wings 
of  the  wind," — 

is  evidently  taken  from  the  before-mentioned  verses  in  the 
18th  Psalm,  on  which  it  is  perhaps  an  improvement.  It 
has  also  been  imitated  by  two  of  our  first  poets,  Shakespeare 
and  Thomson.    The  former  in  Romeo  and  Juliet — 

"  Bestrides  the  lazy  paced  clouds, 
And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air." 

'The  latter  in  Winter,  1.  199— 

 "  'Till  Nature  s  king  who  oft 

Amid  tempestuous  darkness  dwells  alone, 
And  on  the  wings  of  the  careering  winds 
Walks  dreadfully  serene." 

As  these  imitations  have  not  before,  I  believe,  been  noticed, 
they  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  lovers  of  polite  letters ;  and 
they  are  such  as  at  least  will  amuse  your  readers  in  general. 
If  the  sacred  writings  were  attentively  perused,  we  should 
find  innumerable  passages  from  which  our  best  modem 
poets  have  drawn  their  most  admired  ideas;  and  the 
enumerations  of  these  instances  would  perhaps  attract  the 
attention  of  many  persons  to  those  volumes,  which  they 
now  perhaps  think  to  contain  everytliing  tedious  and  dis- 
gusting, bat  which,  on  the  contrary,  they  would  find  replete 
with  interest,  beauty,  and  true  sublimity. 


384 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


STEKNHOLD  AND  HOPKINS. 

Ma.  Editor, 

In  your  "  Mirror  "  for  July,  a  Mr.  William  Toone  has 
offered  a  few  observations  on  a  paper  of  mine,  in  a  preceding 
number,  containing  remarks  on  the  versions  and  imitations  oi 
the  ninth  and  tenth  verses  of  the  18  th  Psalm,  to  which  I  think 
it  necessary  to  offer  a  few  words  by  way  of  reply ;  as  thej 
not  only  put  an  erroneous  construction  on  certain  passages  Oi 
that  paper,  but  are  otherwise  open  to  material  objection. 

The  object  of  Mr.  Toone,  in  some  parts  of  his  observations, 
appears  to  have  been  to  refute  something  which  he  fancied  I 
had  advanced,  tending  to  establish  the  general  merit  of  Stern- 
hold  and  Hopkins'  trans]  ation  of  the  Psalms  :  but  he  might 
have  saved  himself  this  unnecessary  trouble,  as  I  have 
decidedly  condemned  it  as  mere  doggrel,  still  preserved  in 
our  churches  to  the  detriment  of  religion.  And  the  version 
of  the  passage  in  question  is  adduced  as  a  brilliant,  though 
probably  accidental,  exception  to  the  general  character  of  the 
work.  What  necessity,  therefore,  your  correspondent  could 
see  for  "  hoping  that  I  should  think  with  him,  that  the 
sooner  the  old  version  of  the  Psalms  was  consigned  to 
oblivion,  the  better  it  would  be  for  rational  devotion"  I 
am  perfectly  at  a  loss  to  imagine. 

This  concluding  sentence  of  Mr.  Toone' s  paper,  which  I 
consider  as  introduced  merely  by  way  of  rounding  the  period, 
and  making  a  graceful  exit,  needs  no  further  animadversion. 
I  shall  therefore  proceed  to  examine  the  objections  of  the 
"worthy  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,"  to  these 
verses  cited  by  your  correspondent,  by  which  he  hopes  to 
prove,  that  Dryden,  Knox,  and  the  numerous  other  eminent 
men  who  have  expressed  their  admiration  thereof,  to  be  little 
better  than  idiots.    The  first  is  this  : 

"  Cherubim  is  the  plural  for  Cherub;  but  our  versioner, 
by  adding  an  s  to  it,  has  rendered  them  both  plurals."  By 
adding  an  s  to  what  ?  If  the  pronoun  it  refer  to  cherubim, 
as  according  to  the  construction  of  the  sentence  it  really  does, 
the  whole  objection  is  nonsense.    But  ihe  worthy  gentleman, 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


no  doubt,  meant  to  say,  that  Sternhold  had  rendered  them 
both  plurals,  by  the  addition  of  an  s  to  cherub.  Even  in  this 
sense,  however,  I  conceive  the .  charge  to  be  easily  obviated  ; 
for,  though  cherubim  is  doubtless  usually  considered  as  the 
plural  of  cherub,  yet  the  two  words  are  frequently  so  used 
in  the  Old  Testament  as  to  prove,  that  they  were  often 
applied  to  separate  ranks  of  beings.  One  of  these,  which 
I  shall  cite,  will  dispel  all  doubt  on  the  subject. 

"And  within  the  oracle  he  made  two  cherubims  of  olive  tree, 
each  ten  cubits  high." — 1  Kings,  v.  28,  chap.  vii. 

TLe  other  objection  turns  upon  a  word  with  which  i*  is 
not  necessary  for  me  to  interfere ;  for  I  did  not  quote  these 
rerses  as  instances  of  the  merit  of  Sternhold,  or  his  version, 
I  only  asserted,  that  the  lines  which  I  then  copied — viz., 
"  The  Lord  descended  from  above,"  &c. 

were  truly  noble  and  sublime.  Whether,  therefore,  Stern- 
hold wrote  all  the  winds  (as  asserted  by  your  correspondent, 
in  order  to  furnish  room  for  objection)  or  mighty  tvinds,  is 
of  no  import.  But  if  this  really  be  a  subsequent  alteration, 
I  think,  at  least,  there  is  no  improvement ;  for  when  we 
conceive  the  winds  as  assembling  from  all  quarters,  at  the 
omnipotent  command  of  the  Deity,  and  bearing  him  with 
their  united  forces  from  the  heavens,  we  have  a  more  sublime 
image,  than  when  we  see  him  as  flying  merely  on  mighty 
winds,  or  as  driving  his  team  (or  troop)  of  angels  on  a 
strong  tempest's  rapid  wing,  with  most  amazing  swiftness, 
as  elegantly  represented  by  Brady  and  Tate* 

*  How  any  man,  enjoying  the  use  of  his  senses,  could  prefer  the 
contemptible  version  of  Brady  and  Tate  of  this  verse  to  Sternhold, 
is  to  me  inexplicable.    The  epithets  which  are  introduced  would 
have  disgraced  a  school-boy,  and  the  majestic  imagery  of  the 
original  is  sacrificed  to  make  room  for  tinsel  and  fustian. 
"  The  chariot  of  the  king  of  kings, 
Which  active  troops  o  f  anyels  drew. 
On  a  stronq  tempest's  rapid  wings, 
With  most  amazing  swiftness Jlew.n 
C  G 


386 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


I  differ  frcm  your  correspondent's  opinion,  that  these 
verses,  so  far  from  possessing  sublimity,  attract  the  reader 
merely  by  their  rumbling  sound.  And  here  it  may  not  be 
amiss  to  observe,  that  the  true  sublime  dees  not  consist  of 
liigh-sounding  words,  or  pompous  magnificence ;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  most  frequently  appears  clad  in  native  dignity  and 
simplicity,  without  art  and  without  ornament. 

The  most  elegant  critic  of  antiquity.  Longinus,  in  his 
treatise  on  the  sublime,  adduces  the  following  passage  from 
the  book  of  Genesis,  as  possessing  that  quality  in  an  eminent 
degree — 

"God  said  let  there  be  light,  and  there  teas  light: — Let  the 
earth  be,  and  the  earth  ivas* — " 

Prom  what  I  have  advanced  on  this  subject,  I  would  not 
have  it  inferred,  that  I  conceive  the  version  of  Sternhold 
and  Hopkins,  generally  speaking,  to  be  superior  to  that  of 
Brady  and  Tate;  for,  on  the  contrary,  in  almost  every 
instance,  except  that  above-mentioned,  the  latter  possesses 
an  indubitable  right  to  pre-eminence.  Our  language,  how- 
ever, cannot  yet  boast  one  version  possessing  the  true  spirit 
of  the  original ;  some  are  beneath  contempt,  and  the  best  has 
scarcely  attained  mediocrity.  Your  correspondent  has  quoted 
some  verses  from  Tate,  in  triumph,  as  comparatively  ex- 
cellent ;  but,  in  my  opinion,  they  are  also  instances  of  our 
general  failure  in  sacred  poetry :  they  abound  in  those 
ambitiosa  ornament  a  which  do  well  to  please  women  and 
children,  but  which  disgust  the  man  of  taste. 

To  the  imitations  already  noticed  of  this  passage,  permit 
me  to  add  the  following — 

"  But  various  Iris  Jove's  commands  to  bear, 
Speeds  on  the  wings  of  winds  through  liquid  air.'* 

Pope's  Iliad,  b.  ii. 
"  Miguel  cruzaudo  os  pelagos  do  vento." 

Carlos  Rediuido,  canto  i. 
By  Pedro  de  Azevedo  Tojal,  an  ancient  Portuguese  poet  of 
some  merit. 

*  The  critic  apparently  quoted  from  memory,  for  we  may  search 
in  ^vain  for  the  latter  part  of  this  sentence. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


387 


REMARKS  ON  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 

WARTON 

The  poems  of  Thomas  Warton  are  replete  with  a  sublimit} 
and  richness  of  imagery,  which  seldom  fail  to  enchant :  every 
line  presents  new  beauties  of  idea,  aided  by  all  the  magic  of 
animated  diction.  Erom  the  inexhaustible  stores  of  figurative 
language,  majesty,  and  sublimity,  which  the  ancient  English 
poets  afford,  he  has  culled  some  of  the  richest  and  the  sweetest 
flowers.  But,  unfortunately,  in  thus  making  use  of  the  beau- 
ties of  other  writers,  he  has  been  too  unsparing;  for  the 
greater  number  of  his  ideas,  and  nervous  epithets,  cannot, 
strictly  speaking,  be  called  his  own ;  therefore,  however  we 
may  be  charmed  by  the  grandeur  of  his  images,  or  the  felicity 
of  his  expresssion,  we  must  still  bear  in  our  recollection,  that 
we  cannot  with  justice  bestow  upon  him  the  highest  culogium 
of  genius — that  of  originality. 

It  lias,  with  much  justice,  been  observed,  that  Pope  and 
his  imitators  have  introduced  a  species  of  refinement  into  our 
language,  which  has  banished  that  nerve  and  pathos  for  which 
Milton  had  rendered  it  eminent.  Harmonious  modulations, 
and  unvarying  exactness  of  measure,  totally  precluding  sub- 
limity and  fire,  have  reduced  our  fashionable  poetry  to  mere 
sing-song.  But  Thomas  Warton,  whose  taste  was  unvitiatetf 
by  the  frivolities  of  the  day,  immediately  saw  the  intrinsic 
worth  of  what  the  world  then  slighted.  He  saw  that  the 
ancient  poets  contained  a  fund  of  strength,  and  beauty  of 
imagery  as  well  as  diction,  which  in  the  hands  of  genius  woidd 
shine  forth  with  redoubled  lustre.  Entirely  rejecting,  there- 
fore, modern  niceties,  he  extracted  the  honied  sweets  from 
these  beautiful,  though  neglected  flowers.  Every  grace  of 
sentiment,  every  poetical  term,  which  a  false  taste  had  rendered 
obsolete,  was  by  him  revived  and  made  to  grace  his  own  ideas ; 
and  though  many  will  condemn  him  as  guilty  of  plagiarism, 
yet  few  will  be  able  to  withhold  the  tribute  of  their  praise. 

The  peculiar  forte  of  Warton  seems  to  have  been  in  the 
c  c  2 


388 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


sombre  descriptive.  The  wild  airy  flights  of  a  Spenser,  the 
"chivalrous  feats  of  barons  bold/'  or  the  "  cloister' d  soli- 
tude," were  the  favourites  of  his  mind.  Of  this  his  bent,  he 
informs  us  in  the  following  lines : — 

"  Through  Pope's  soft  song  though  all  the  graces  breathe, 
And  happiest  art  adorns  his  attic  page, 
Yet  does  my  mind  with  sweeter  transport  glow, 
As  at  the  root  of  mossy  trunk  reclin'd, 
In  magic  Spenser's  wildly  warbled  song 
I  see  deserted  Una  wander  wide 
Through  wasteful  solitudes  and  lurid  heaths, 
Weary,  forlorn  ;  than  where  the  fated*  fair 
Upon  the  bosom  bright  of  silver  Thames, 
Launches  in  all  the  lustre  of  brocade, 
Amid  the  splendours  of  the  laughing  sun  ; 
The  gay  description  palls  upon  the  sense 
And  coldly  strikes  the  mind  with  feeble  bliss." 

Pleasures  of  Melancholy, 

Warton's  mind  was  formed  for  the  grand  and  the  sublime. 
Were  his  imitations  less  verbal  and  less  numerous,  I  should 
be  led  to  imagine,  that  the  peculiar  beauties  of  his  favourite 
authors  had  sunk  so  impressively  into  his  mind,  that  he  had 
unwittingly  appropriated  them  as  his  own;  but  they  are  in 
general  such  as  to  preclude  the  idea. 

To  the  metrical,  and  other  intrinsic  ornaments  of  style,  he 
appears  to  have  paid  due  attention.  If  we  meet  with  an 
uncouth  expression,  we  immediately  perceive  that  it  is  pecu- 
liarly appropriate,  and  that  no  other  term  could  have  been 
made  use  of  with  so  happy  an  effect.  His  poems  abound 
with  alliterative  lines.  Indeed,  this  figure  seems  to  have  been 
his  favourite;  and  he  studiously  seeks  every  opportunity  to 
introduce  it :  however,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  that  his 
"  daisy-dappled  dale,"  &c.  occur  too  frequently. 

The  poem  on  which  Warton's  fame  (as  a  poet)  principally 
rests,  is  the  "  Pleasures  of  Melancholy,"  and  (notwithstanding 
the  perpetual  recurrence  of  ideas  which  are  borrowed  from 

*  Belinda.    Vide  Pope's  "  Eape  of  the  Lock." 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


389 


other  poets)  there  are  few  pieces  which  I  have  perused  with 
more  exquisite  gratification.  The  gloomy  tints  with  which 
he  overcasts  his  descriptions ;  his  highly  figurative  language ; 
and,  above  all,  the  antique  air  which  the  poem  wears,  convey 
the  most  sublime  ideas  to  the  mind. 

Of  the  other  pieces  of  this  poet,  some  are  excellent,  and 
they  all  rise  above  mediocrity.  In  his  sonnets  he  has  suc- 
ceeded wonderfully ;  that  written  at  Winslade,  and  the  one  to 
the  river  Lodon,  are  peculiarly  beautiful,  and  that  to  Mr. 
Gray  is  most  elegantly  turned.  The  "  Ode  on  the  approach 
of  Summer,"  is  replete  with  genius  and  poetic  fire  :  and  even 
over  the  Birthday  odes,  which  he  wrote  as  poet  laureat,  his 
genius  has  cast  energy  and  beauty.  His  humorous  pieces 
and  satires  abound  in  wit :  and,  in  short,  talcing  him  alto- 
gether, he  is  an  ornament  to  our  country  and  our  language, 
and  it  is  to  be  regretted,  that  the  profusion  with  which  he  has 
made  use  of  the  beauties  of  other  poets,  should  have  given 
room  for  censure. 

I  should  have  closed  my  short,  and  I  fear  jejune  essay  on 
"Warton,  but  that  I  wished  to  hint  to  your  truly  elegant  and 
acute  Stamford  correspondent,  Octavius  Gilchrist  (whose 
future  remarks  on  Warton's  imitations  I  await  with  consi- 
derable impatience),  that  the  passage  in  the  <k  Pleasures  of 
Melancholy" — 

 "  or  ghostly  shape, 

At  distance  seen,  invites,  with  beckoning  hand, 
Thy  lonesome  steps," 

which  he  supposes  to  be  taken  from  the  following  in  "  Comus," 

"  Of  calling  shapes,  and  beck'ning  shadows  dire, 
And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names," 

is  more  probably  taken  from  the  commencement  of  Pope's 
elegy  on  an  unfortunate  lady — 

"  What  beck'ning  ghost,  along  the  moonlight  shade 
Invites  my  steps,  and  points  to  yonder  glade  ?" 

The  original  idea  was  possibly  taken  from  "  Comus"  by  Pope, 
from  whom  Warton,  to  all  appearance  again  borrowed  it. 


300 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


Were  the  similarity  of  the  passage  in  Gray  to  that  in 
"Warton  less  striking  and  verbal,  I  should  be  inclined  to  think 
it  only  a  remarkable  coincidence;  for  Gray's  biographer 
informs  us,  taat  he  commenced  his  elegy  in  1742  and  that  it 
was  completed  in  1744,  being  the  year  which  he  particularly 
devoted  to  the  Muses,  though  he  did  not  "put  the  finishing 
strobe  io  if3  until  1750.  The  "Pleasures  of  Melancholy" 
were  pablished  in  4to,  in  17 47.  Therefore  Gray  might  take 
his  third  stanza  from  Warton ;  but  it  is  rather  extraordinary 
that  the  third  stanza  of  a  poem  should  be  taken  from  another 
published^ve  years  after  that  poem  was  begun,  and  three  after 
it  was  understood  to  be  completed ;  one  circumstance,  how- 
ever, seems  to  render  the  supposition  of  its  being  a  plagiarism 
•somewhat  more  probable,  which  is,  that  the  stanza  in  ques- 
tion is  not  essential  to  the  connexion  of  the  preceding  and 
antecedent  verses  ;  therefore  it  might  have  been  added  by  Gray, 
when  he  put  the  "finishing  stroke"  to  his  piece  in  1750. 


CURSORY  REMARKS  ON  TRAGEDY. 

The  pleasure  which  is  derived  from  the  representation  of  an 
affecting  tragedy  has  often  been  the  subject  of  inquiry  among 
philosophical  critics,  as  a  singular  phenomenon.  That  the 
mind  should  receive  gratification  from  the  excitement  of  those 
passions  which  are  in  themselves  painful,  is  really  an  extraor- 
dinary paradox,  and  it  is  the  more  inexplicable  since,  when 
the  same  means  are  employed  to  rouse  the  more  pleasing  affec- 
tions, no  adequate  effect  is  produced. 

In  order  to  solve  this  problem,  many  ingenious  hypotheses 
have  been  invented.  The  Abbe  Da  Bos  tells  us  that  the  mind 
has  such  a  natural  antipathy  to  a  state  of  listlessness  and  lan- 
guor, as  to  render  the  transition  from  it  to  a  state  of  exertion, 
even  though  by  rousing  passions  in  themselves  painful,  as  in 
the  instance  of  a  tragedy,  a  positive  pleasure.  Monsieur  Fon- 
tenelle  has  given  us  a  more  satisfactory  account.  He  tells  us 
that  pleasure  and  pain,  two  sentiments  so  different  in  them- 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


391 


selves,  do  not  differ  so  mueli  in  their  cause ; — that  pleasure 
carried  too  far,  becomes  pain,  and  pain,  a  little  moderated, 
becomes  pleasure.  Hence  that  the  pleasure  we  derive  from 
tragedy  is  a  pleasing  sorrow,  a  modulated  pain.  David 
Hume,  who  has  also  written  upon  this  subject,  unites  the  two 
systems,  with  this  addition,  that  the  painful  emotions  excited 
by  the  representation  of  melancholy  scenes  are  further  tem- 
pered, and  the  pleasure  is  proportionably  heightened,  by  the 
eloquence  displayed  in  the  relation,  the  art  shown  in  collect- 
ing the  pathetic  circumstances,  and  the  judgment  evinced  in 
their  happy  disposition. 

But  even  now  I  do  not  conceive  the  difficulty  to  be  satisfac- 
torily done  away.  Admitting  the  postulatum  which  the  Abbe 
Du  Bos  assumes,  that  languor  is  so  disagreeable  to  the  mind 
as  to  render  its  removal  positive  pleasure,  to  be  true;  yet. 
when  we  recollect,  as  Mr.  Hume  has  before  observed,  that 
were  the  same  objects  of  distress  wrhich  give  us  pleasure  in 
tragedy  set  before  our  eyes  in  reality,  though  they  would 
effectually  remove  listlessness,  they  would  excite  the  most 
unfeigned  uneasiness,  we  shall  hesitate  in  applying  this  solu- 
tion in  its  full  extent  to  the  present  subject.  M.  Fontenelle's 
reasoning  is  much  more  conclusive  ;  yet  I  think  he  errs  egregi- 
ously  in  his  premises,  if  he  means  to  imply  that  any  modulation 
of  pain  is  pleasing,  because,  in  whatever  degree  it  may  be,  it 
is  still  pain,  and  remote  from  either  ease  or  positive  pleasure  : 
and  if  by  moderated  pain  he  means  an  uneasy  sensation  abated, 
though  not  totally  banished,  he  is  no  less  mistaken  in  the 
application  of  them  to  the  subject  before  us.  Pleasure  may 
very  well  be  conceived  to  be  painful  when  carried  to  excess, 
because  it  there  becomes  exertion,  and  is  inconvenient.  We 
may  also  form  some  idea  of  a  pleasure  arising  from  moderated 
pain,  or  the  transition  from  the  disagreeable  to  the  less  disa- 
greeable ;  but  this  cannot  in  any  wise  be  applied  to  the  gratifi- 
cation we  derive  from  a  tragedy,  for  there  no  superior  degree 
of  pain  is  left  for  an  inferior.  As  to  Mr.  Hume's  addition  of 
the  pleasure  we  derive  from  the  art  of  the  poet,  for  the  intro  • 
auction  of  which  he  has  written  his  whole  dissertation  on 
tragedy,  it  merits  little  consideration.    The  self-recollection 


392 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


necessary  to  render  this  art  a  source  of  gratification  mu^t 
weaken  the  illusion,  and  whatever  weakens  the  illusion, 
diminishes  the  effect. 

In  these  systems  it  is  taken  for  granted  that  all  those 
passions  are  excited  winch  are  represented  in  the  drama. 
This  I  conceive  to  have  been  the  primary  cause  of  error,  for 
to  me  it  seems  very  probable  that  the  only  passion  or  affection 
which  is  excited  is  that  of  sympathy,  which  partakes  of  the 
pleasing  nature  of  pity  and  compassion,  and  includes  in  it 
so  mucli  as  is  pleasing  of  hope  and  apprehension,  joy  and 
grief. 

The  pleasure  we  derive  from  the  afflictions  of  a  friend  is 
proverbial — every  person  has  felt,  and  wondered  why  he  felt, 
something  soothing  in  the  participation  of  the  sorrows  ol 
those  dear  to  his  heart ;  and  he  might,  with  as  much  reason, 
have  questioned  why  he  was  delignted  with  the  melancholy 
scenes  of  tragedy.  Both  pleasures  are  equally  singular ;  they 
both  arise  from  the  same  source.  Both  originate  in  sym- 
pathy. 

It  would  seem  natural  that  an  accidental  spectator  of  a 
cause  in  a  court  of  justice,  with  which  he  is  perfectly  unac- 
quainted, would  remain  an  uninterested  auditor  of  what  was 
going  forward.  Experience  tells  us,  however,  the  exact  con- 
trary. He  immediately,  even  before  he  is  well  acquainted 
with  the  merits  of  the  case,  espouses  one  side  of  the  question, 
to  which  he  uniformly  adheres,  participates  in  all  its  advan- 
tages, and  sympathizes  in  its  success.  There  is  no  denying 
that  the  interest  this  man  takes  in  the  business  is  a  source  of 
pleasure  to  him ;  but  we  cannot  suppose  one  of  the  parties 
in  the  cause,  though  his  interest  must  be  infinitely  more  lively, 
to  feel  an  equal  pleasure,  because  the  painful  passions  are  in 
him  really  roused,  while  in  the  other  sympathy  alone  is 
excited,  which  is  in  itself  pleasing.  It  is  pretty  much  the 
same  with  the  spectator  of  a  tragedy.  And  if  the  sympathy 
is  the  more  pleasing,  it  is  because  the  actions  are  so  much  the 
more  calculated  to  entrap  the  attention,  and  the  object  so 
much  the  more  worthy.  The  pleasure  is  heightened  also  in 
both  instances  by  a  kind  of  intuitive  recollection,  which  never 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


393 


forsakes  the  spectator ;  that  no  bad  consequences  will  result 
to  him  from  the  action  he  is  surveying.  This  recollection  is 
the  more  predominant  in  the  spectator  of  a  tragedy,  as  it  is 
impossible  in  any  case  totally  to  banish  from  his  memory  that 
the  scenes  are  fictitious  and  illusive.  In  real  life  we  always 
advert  to  futurity,  and  endeavour  to  draw  inferences  of  the 
probable  consequences ;  but  the  moment  we  take  off  our 
minds  from  what  is  passing  on  the  stage  to  reasonings  there- 
upon the  illusion  is  dispelled,  and  it  again  recurs  that  it  is 
all  fiction. 

If  we  compare  the  degrees  of  pleasure  we  derive  from  the 
perusal  of  a  novel  and  the  representation  of  a  tragedy,  we 
shall  observe  a  wonderful  disparity.  In  both  we  feel  an 
interest,  in  both  sympathy  is  excited.  But  in  the  one,  things 
are  merely  related  to  us  as  having  passed,  which  it  is  not 
attempted  to  persuade  us  ever  did  in  reality  happen,  and 
from  which,  therefore,  we  never'  can  deceive  ourselves  into  the 
idea  that  any  consequences  whatever  will  result ;  in  the  other, 
on  the  contrary,  the  actions  themselves  pass  before  our  eyes  ; 
we  are  not  tempted  to  ask  ourselves  whether  they  did  ever 
happen ;  we  see  them  happen,  we  are  the  witnesses  of  them, 
and  were  it  not  for  the  meliorating  circumstances  before- 
mentioned,  the  sympathy  would  become  so  powerful  as  to  be 
in  the  highest  degree  painful. 

In  tragedy,  therefore,  everything  which  can  strengthen  -the 
illusion  should  be  introduced,  for  there  are  a  thousand  draw- 
backs on  the  effect  which  it  is  impossible  to  remove,  and 
which  have  always  so  great  a  force,  as  to  put  it  out  of  the 
power  of  the  poet  to  excite  sympathy  in  a  too  painful  degree. 
Everything  that  is  improbable,  everything  which  is  out  of  the 
common  course  of  nature  should,  for  this  reason,  be  avoided, 
as  nothing  will  so  forcibly  remind  the  spectator  of  the  unreal- 
ness  of  the  illusion. 

It  is  a  mistaken  idea  that  we  sympathize  sooner  with  the 
distresses  of  kings  and  illustrious  personages  than  with  those 
of  common  life.  Men  are,  in  fact,  more  inclined  to  com- 
miserate the  sufferings  of  their  equals  than  of  those  whom 
they  cannot  but  regard,  rather  with  awe  than  pity,  as  superior 


394 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


beings,  and  to  take  an  interest  in  incidents  which  might  have 
happened  to  themselves,  sooner  than  in  those  remote  from 
their  own  rank  and  habits.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  YEschylus 
©ensures  Enripidcs  for  introducing  his  kings  in  rags,  as  if 
they  were  more  to  be  compassionated  than  other  men. 

Upatrov  \vtv  rovg  PacriXtvovrag  pdiciafXTTKTX^v,  iv  tXttivoi 
To7c  dv9pu)7rotg  ^aivovr'  tivai. 

Some  will,  perhaps,  imagine  that  it  is  in  the  power  of  the 
poet  to  excite  our  sympathy  in  too  powerful  a  degree,  because, 
at  the  representation  of  certain  scenes,  the  spectators  are 
frequently  affected  so  as  to  make  them  shriek  out  with  terror. 
But  this  is  not  sympathy;  it  is  horror,  it  is  disgust,  and  is 
only  witnessed  when  some  act  is  committed  on  the  stage  so 
cruel  and  bloody,  as  to  make  it  impossible  to  contemplate  it 
even  in  idea  without  horror. 

"  Nec  pueros  coram  populo  Medea  trucidet, 
Aut  humaiia  palam  coquat  exta  nefarius  Atreus." 

Hor.  Ars  Poet,  1.  185. 

It  is  for  this  reason,  also,  that  many  fine  German  dramas 
cannot  be  brought  on  the  English  stage,  such  as  the  Robbers 
of  Schiller,  and  the  Adelaide  of  Wulhngen,  by  Kotzebue;  they 
are  too  horrible  to  be  read  without  violent  emotions,  and 
Horace  will  tell  you  what  an  immense  difference  there  is  in 
point  of  effect  between  a  relation  and  a  representation. 

"  Segnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aurein, 
Quam  quae  sunt  oculis  subjecta  fidelibus,  et  quas 
Ipsi  sibi  tradit  spectator." 

Ars  Poct.y  1.  180. 

I  shall  conclude  these  desultory  remarks,  strung  together 
at  random,  without  order  or  connexion,  by  observing  what 
little  foundation  there  is  for  the  general  outcry  in  the  literary 
world  against  the  prevalence  of  German  dramas  on  our  stage. 
Did  they  not  possess  uncommon  merit,  they  would  not  meet 
with  such  general  approbation.  Fashion  has  but  a  partial 
influence,  but  they  have  drawn  tears  from  an  audience  in  a 
barn  as  well  as  in  a' theatre  royal;  they  have  been  welcomed 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


395 


with  plaudits  in  every  little  market  town  in  the  three  king- 
doms as  well  as  in  the  metropolis.  Nature  speaks  but  one 
language  ;  she  is  alike  intelligible  to  the  peasant  and  the  man 
of  letters,  the  tradesman  and  the  man  of  fashion.  While 
the  Muse  of  Germany  shall  continue  to  produce  such  plays 
as  the  Stranger  and  Lover's  Vows,*  who  will  not  rejoice  that 
translation  is  able  to  naturalize  her  efforts  in  our  language  ? 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. — No.  I. 

— — —  "  There  is  a  mood 

(I  sing  not  to  the  vacant  and  the  young), 

There  is  a  kindly  mood  of  Melancholy, 

That  wings  the  soul  and  points  her  to  the  skies." 

Dyer. 

Philosophers  have  divested  themselves  of  their  natural 
apathy,  and  poets  have  risen  above  themselves,  in  descanting 
on  the  pleasures  of  Melancholy.  There  is  no  mind  so  gross, 
no  understanding  so  uncultivated,  as  to  be  incapable,  at  certain 
moments,  and  amid  certain  combinations,  of  feeling  that  sub- 
lime influence  upon  the  spirits,  which  steals  the  soul  from  the 
petty  anxieties  of  the  world, 

"And  fits  it  to  hold  converse  with  the  gods." 

I  must  confess,  if  such  there  be  who  never  felt  the  divine 
abstraction,  T  envy  them  not  their  insensibility.  For  my  own 
part,  it  is  from  the  indulgence  of  this  soothing  power  that  I 
derive  the  most  exquisite  of  gratifications.  At  the  calm  hour 
of  moonlight,  amid  all  the  sublime  serenity,  the  dead  stillness 
of  the  night,  or  when  the  howling  storm  rages  in  the  heavens, 
the  ram  pelts  on  my  roof,  and  the  winds  whistle  through  the 
crannies  of  my  apartment,  I  feel  the  divine  mood  of  melan- 

*  I  speak  of  these  plays  only  as  adapted  to  our  stage  by  the- 
elegant  pens  of  Mr.  Thompson  and  Mrs.  Inchbald. 


396 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


choly  upon  me  ;  I  imagine  myself  placed  upon  an  eminence, 
above  the  crowds  who  pant  below  in  the  dusty  tracks  of 
wealth  and  honour.  The  black  catalogue  of  crimes  and  of 
vice,  the  sad  tissue  of  wretchedness  and  woe,  passes  in  review 
before  me,  and  I  look  down  upon  man  with  an  eye  of  pity  and 
commiseration.  Though  the  scenes  which  1  survey  be  mournful, 
and  the  ideas  they  excite  equally  sombre,  though  the  tears 
gusli  as  I  contemplate  them,  and  my  heart  feels  heavy  with 
the  sorrowful  emotions  they  inspire,  yet  are  they  not  unac- 
companied with  sensations  of  the  purest  and  most  ecstatic 
bliss. 

It  is  to  the  spectator  alone  that  melancholy  is  forbidding ; 
in  herself  she  is  soft  and  interesting,  and  capable  of  affording 
pure  and  unalloyed  delight.  Ask  the  lover  why  he  muses  by 
the  side  of  the  purling  brook,  or  plunges  into  the  deep  gloom 
of  the  forest.  Ask  the  unfortunate  why  he  seeks  the  still 
shades  of  solitude,  or  the  man  who  feels  the  pangs  of  dis- 
appointed ambition,  why  he  retires  into  the  silent  walks  of 
seclusion,  and  he  will  tell  you  that  he  derives  a  pleasure 
therefrom  which  nothing  else  can  impart.  It  is  the  delight 
of  melancholy ;  but  the  melancholy  of  these  beings  is  as  far 
removed  from  that  of  the  philosopher  as  are  the  narrow  and 
contracted  complaints  of  selfishness  from  the  mournful  regrets 
ot  expansive  philanthropy ;  as  are  the  desponding  intervals  of 
insanity  from  the  occasional  depressions  of  benevolent  sensi- 
bility. 

The  man  who  has  attained  that  calm  equanimity  which 
qualifies  him  to  look  down  upon  the  petty  evils  of  life  with 
indifference,  who  can  so  far  conquer  the  weakness  of  nature 
as  to  consider  the  sufferings  of  the  individual  of  little  moment, 
wThen  put  in  competition  with  the  welfare  of  the  community, 
is  alone  the  true  philosopher.  His  melancholy  is  not  excited 
by  the  retrospect  of  his  own  misfortunes  ;  it  has  its  rise  from 
the  contemplation  of  the  miseries  incident  to  life  and  the  evils 
which  obtrude  themselves  upon  society  and  interrupt  the 
harmony  of  nature.  It  would  be  arrogating  too  much  merit 
to  myself  to  assert  that  I  have  a  just  claim  to  the  title  of  a 
philosopher,  as  it  is  here  defined;  or  to  say  that  the  specu- 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


397 


lations  of  my  melancholy  hours  are  equally  disinterested ;  be 
this  as  it  may,  I  have  determined  to  present  my  solitary 
effusions  to  the  public :  they  will  at  least  have  the  merit  of 
novelty  to  recommend  them,  and  may  possibly,  in  some  mea- 
sure, be  instrumental  in  the  melioration  of  the  human  heart 
or  the  correction  of  false  prepossessions.  This  is  the  height 
of  my  ambition :  this  once  attained,  and  my  end  will  be  fully 
accomplished.  One  thing  I  can  safely  promise,  though  far 
from  being  the  coinages  of  a  heart  at  ease,  they  will  contain 
neither  the  querulous  captiousness  of  misfortune  nor  the 
bitter  taunts  of  misanthropy.  Society  is  a  chain  of  which  I  am 
merely  a  link ;  all  men  are  my  associates  in  error,  and  though 
some  may  have  gone  farther  in  the  ways  of  guilt  than  myself, 
yet  it  is  not  in  me  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  them :  it  is  mine 
to  treat  Uiem  rather  in  pity  than  in  anger,  to  lament  their 
crimes,  and  to  weep  over  their  sufferings.  As  these  papers 
will  be  the  amusement  of  those  hours  of  relaxation  when  the 
mind  recedes  from  the  vexations  of  business,  and  sinks  into 
itself  for  a  moment  of  solitary  ease,  rather  than  the  efforts  of 
literary  leisure,  the  reader  will  not  expect  to  find  in  them 
unusual  elegance  of  language  or  studied  propriety  of  style. 
In  the  short  and  necessary  intervals  of  cessation  from  the 
anxieties  of  an  irksome  employment,  one  finds  little  time  to  be 
solicitous  about  expression.  If,  therefore,  the  fervour  of  a 
glowing  mind  express  itself  in  too  warm  and  luxuriant  a 
manner  for  the  cold  ear  of  dull  propriety,  let  the  fastidious 
critic  find  a  selfish  pleasure  in  descrying  it.  To  criticism 
melancholy  is  indifferent.  If  learning  cannot  be  better 
employed  than  in  declaiming  against  the  defects  while  it  is 
insensible  to  the  beauties  of  a  performance,  well  may  we 
exclaim  with  the  poet : — 

Q  evfjLivrjr  ay  void  Cjq  dftuj/jioQ  rig  el 
Orav  o'i  ov  ou  txoig  ovtuq  g'ovk  ayvoei. 

w. 


308 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


MELANCHOLY  HOUES.— No.  II. 

"But  (wel-a-day)  who  loves  the  Muses  now? 
Or  helpes  the  climber  of  the  sacred  hyll? 
None  leane  to  them,  but  strive  to  disalow 
All  heavenly  dewes  the  goddesses  distill." 

Wm.  Broione's  ShcphettreFs  Pipe.    Eg.  5i 

It  is  a  melancliolj  reflection,  and  a  reflection  which  often 
sinks  heavily  on  my  soul,  that  the  sons  of  Genius  generally 
seem  predestined  to  encounter  the  rudest  storms  of  adversity, 
to  struggle,  unnoticed,  with  poverty  and  misfortune.  The 
annals  of  the  world  present  us  with  many  corroborations  of 
tills  remark ;  and,  alas !  who  can  tell  how  many  unhappy 
beings,  who  might  have  shone  with  distinguished  lustre 
among  the  stars  which  illumine  our  hemisphere,  may  have 
sunk  unknown  beneath  the  pressure  of  untoward  circum- 
stances ;  who  knows  how  many  may  have  shrunk,  with  all 
the  exquisite  sensibility  of  genius,  from  the  rude  and  riotous 
discord  of  the  world  into  the  peaceful  slumbers  of  death. 
Among  the  number  of  those  whose  talents  might  have  elevated 
them  to  the  first  rank  of  eminence,  but  who  have  been  over- 
whelmed with  the  accumulated  ills  of  poverty  and  misfortune, 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  rank  a  young  man  whom  I  once  accounted 
it  my  greatest  happiness  to  be  able  to  call  my  friend. 

Charles  Waneley  was  the  only  son  of  an  humble  village 
rector,  who  just  lived  to  give  him  a  liberal  education,  and 
then  left  him,  unprovided  for  and  unprotected,  to  struggle 
through  the  world  as  well  as  he  could.  With  a  heart  glowing 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  poetry  and  romance,  with  a  sensibility 
the  most  exquisite,  and  with  an  indignant  pride  which  swelled 
in  his  veins,  and  told  him  he  was  a  man,  my  friend  found 
himself  cast  upon  the  wide  world,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  an 
adventurer,  without  fortune  and  without  connexion.  As  his 
independent  spirit  could  not  brook  the  idea  of  being  a  burthen 
to  those  whom  his  father  had  taught  him  to  consider  only  as 
allied  by  blood,  and  not  by  affection,  he  ?ooked  about  him  for 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


399 


a  situation,  which  could  ensure  to  him,  by  his  own  exertions, 
an  honourable  competence.  It  was  not  long  before  such  a 
situation  offered,  and  Charles  precipitately  articled  himself  to 
an  attorney,  without  giving  himself  time  to  consult  his  own 
inclinations,  or  the  disposition  of  his  master.  The  transition 
from  Sophocles  and  Euripides,  Theocritus  and  Ovid,  to  Finchc 
and  Wood,  Coke  and  Wynne,  was  striking  and  difficult ;  but 
Charles  applied  himself  with  his  wonted  ardour  to  his  new 
study,  as  considering  it  not  only  his  interest  but  his  duty  so 
to  do.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  discovered  that  he 
disliked  the  law,  that  he  disliked  his  situation,  and  that  he 
despised  his  master.  The  fact  was,  my  friend  had  many 
mortifications  to  endure  which  his  haughty  soul  could  ill 
brook.  The  attorney  to  whom  he  was  articled  was  one  of 
those  narrow-minded  beings  who  consider  wealth  as  alone 
entitled  to  respect.  He  had  discovered  that  his  clerk  was 
very  poor  and  very  destitute  of  friends,  and  thence  he  very 
naturally  concluded,  that  he  might  insult  him  with  impunity. 
It  appears,  however,  that  he  was  mistaken  in  his  calculations. 
I  one  night  remarked  that  my  friend  was  unusually  thought- 
ful. I  ventured  to  ask  him  whether  he  had  met  with  any- 
thing particular  to  ruffle  his  spirits.  He  looked  at  me  for 
some  moments  significantly,  then,  as  if  roused  to  fury  by 
the  recollection — "  I  have/3  said  he,  vehemently,  "  I  have,  I 
have !  He  has  insulted  me  grossly,  and  I  will  bear  it  no 
longer."  He  now  walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  visible 
emotion.  Presently  he  sat  down.  He  seemed  more  com- 
posed. "My  friend/5  said  he,  "I  have  endured  much  from 
this  man.  I  conceived  it  my  duty  to  forbear,  but  I  have 
forborne  until  forbearance  is  blameable,  and,  by  the  Almighty, 
I  will  nevei  again  endure  what  I  have  endured  this  day! 
But  not  only  this  man ;  every  one  thinks  he  may  treat  me 
with  contumely,  because  I  am  poor  and  friendless.  But  I  am 
a  man,  and  will  no  longer  tamely  submit  to  be  the  sport 
of  fools  and  the  football  ci  caprice.  In  this  spot  of  earth, 
though  it  gave  me  birth,  I  can  never  taste  of  ease.  Here  I 
must  be  miserable.  The  principal  end  of  man  is  to  arrive  at 
happiness.    Here  I  can  never  attain  it ;  and  here,  therefore 


400 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


I  will  no  longer  remain.  My  obligations  to  the  rascal  who 
calls  himself  my  master  are  cancelled  by  his  abuse  of  the 
authority  I  rashly  placed  in  his  hands.  I  have  no  relations 
to  bind  me  to  this  particular  place."  The  tears  started  in 
nis  eyes  as  he  spoke.  "I  have  no  tender  ties  to  bid  me  stay, 
and  why  do  I  stay?  The  world  is  all  before  me.  My 
inclination  leads  me  to  travel ;  I  will  pursue  that  inclination ; 
and,  perhaps,  in  a  strange  land  I  may  find  that  repose  which 
is  denied  to  me  in  the  place  of  my  birth.  My  finances,  it  is 
true,  are  ill  able  to  support  the  expenses  of  travelling :  but 
what  then — Goldsmith,  my  friend  !"  with  rising  enthusiasm, 
"  Goldsmith  traversed  Europe  on  foot,  and  I  am  as  hardy  as 
Goldsmith.  Yes,  I  will  go,  and,  pernaps,  ere  long,  I  may  sit 
me  down  on  some  towering  mountain,  and  exclaim  with  him, 
while  a  hundred  realms  lie  in  perspective  before  me, 

"  Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine." 

It  was  in  vain  I  entreated  him  to  reflect  maturely  ere  he 
took  so  bold  a  step ;  he  was  deaf  to  my  importunities,  and  the 
next  morning  I  received  a  letter  informing  me  of  his  depar- 
ture. He  was  observed  about  sun-rise,  sitting  on  the  stile 
at  the  top  of  an  eminence,  which  commanded  a  prospect  of 
the  surrounding  country,  pensively  looking  towards  the 
village.  I  coidd  divine^  his  emotions  on  thus  casting,  pro 
bably,  a  last  look  on  his  native  place.  The  neat  white 
parsonage  house,  with  the  honeysuckle  mantling  on  its  wall, 
I  knew  would  receive  his  last  glance ;  and  the  image  of  his 
father  would  present  itself  to  his  mind,  with  a  melancholy 
pleasure,  as  he  was  thus  hastening,  a  solitary  individual,  to 
plunge  himself  into  the  crowds  of  the  world,  deprived  of 
that  fostering  hand  which  would  otherwise  have  been  his 
support  and  guide. 

Prom  this  period  Charles  Wanely  was  never  heard  of  at 

L  ;  and  as  his  few  relations  cared  little  about  him,  in  a 

short  time  it  was  almost  forgotten  that  such  a  being  had  ever 
been  in  existence. 

About  five  years  had  elapsed  from  this  period,  when  my 
occasions  led  me  to  the  Continent.    I  will  confess,  I  was  not 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


without  a  romantic  hope  that  I  might  again  meet  with  my 
tost  friend ;  and  that  often,  with  that  idea,  I  scrutinized  the 
features  of  the  passengers.  One  fine  moonlight  night,  as  I 
was  strolling  do  vn  the  grand  Italian  Strada  di  Toledo,  at 
Naples,  I  observed  a  crowd  assembled  round  a  man,  who, 
with  impassioned  gestures,  seemed  to  be  vehemently  declaiming 
to  the  multitude.  It  was  one  of  the  Improvisatori,  who  recite 
extempore  verses  in  the  streets  of  Naples,  for  what  money 
they  can  collect  from  the  hearers.  I  stopped  to  listen  to  the 
man's  metrical  romance,  and  had  remained  in  the  attitude  of 
attention  some  time,  when,  happening  to  turn  round,  I 
beheld  a  person  very  shabbily  dressed,  sted  lastly  gazing  at  me. 
The  moon  shone  full  in  his  face.  I  thought  his  features 
were  familiar  to  me.  He  was  pale  and  emaciated,  and  his 
countenance  bore  marks  of  the  deepest  dejection.  Yet,  amidst 
all  these  changes,  I  thought  I  recognised  Charles  Wanely. 
I  stood  stupified  with  surprise.  My  senses  nearly  failed  me. 
On  recovering  myself,  I  looked  again,  but  he  had  left  the  spot 
the  moment  he  found  himself  observed.  I  darted  through 
the  crowd,  and  ran  every  way  which  I  thought  he  could  have 
gone,  but  it  was  all  to  no  purpose.  Nobody  knew  him. 
Nobody  had  even  seen  such  a  person.  The  two  following 
days  I  renewed  my  inquiries,  and  at  last  discovered  the 
lodgings  where  a  man  of  his  description  had  resided.  But 
he  had  left  Naples  the  morning  after  his  form  had  struck  my 
eyes.  I  found  he  gained  a  subsistence  by  drawing  rude 
figures  in  chalks,  and  vending  them  among  the  peasantry.  I 
could  no  longer  doubt  it  was  my  friend,  and  immediately  per- 
ceived that  his  haughty  spirit  coidd  not  bear  to  be  recognised, 
in  such  degrading  circumstances,  by  one  who  had  known  him 
in  better  days.  Lamenting  the  misguided  notions  which  had 
thus  again  thrown  him  from  me,  I  left  Naples,  now  grown 
hateful  to  my  sight,  and  embarked  for  England.  It  is  now 
nearly  twenty-two  years  since  this  rencounter,  during  which 
period  he  has  not  been  heard  of:  and  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  this  unfortunate  young  man  has  found  in  some 
remote  corner  of  the  continent  an  obscure  and  an  unlamented 
£rave, 

D  D 


i(j2  PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 

Thus,  those  talents  which  were  formed  to  do  honour  &3 
numan  nature,  and  to  the  country  which  gave  them  birth, 
have  been  nipped  in  the  bud  by  the  frosts  of  poverty  and 
scorn,  and  their  unhappy  possessor  lies  in  an  unknown  and 
nameless  tomb,  who  might,  under  happier  circumstances, 
have  risen  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  ambition  and  renown. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS.— No.  III. 

u  Few  know  that  elegance  of  soul  refin'd 
Whose  soft  sensation  feels  a  quicker  joy 
From  melancholy's  scenes,  than  the  dull  pride 
Of  tasteless  splendour  and  magnificence 
Can  e'er  afford." 

Warton's  Melancholy. 

IN  one  of  my  midnight  rambles  down  the  side  of  the  Trent, 
the  river  which  waters  the  place  of  my  nativity,  as  I  was 
musing  on  the  various  evils  which  darken  the  life  of  man,  and 
which  have  their  rise  in  the  malevolence  and  ill-nature  of  his 
fellows,  the  sound  .of  a  flute  from  an  adjoining  copse  attracted 
my  attention.  The  tune  it  played  was  mournful  yet  soothing. 
It  was  suited  to  the  solemnity  of  the  hour.  As  the  distant 
notes  came  wafted  at  intervals  on  my  ear,  now  with  gradual 
swell,  then  dying  away  on  the  silence  of  the  night,  I  felt  the 
tide  of  indignation  subside  within  me,  and  give  place  to  the 
solemn  calm  of  repose.  I  listened  for  some  time  in  breathless 
ravishment.  The  strain  ceased,  yet  the  sounds  still  vibrated 
on  my  heart,  and  the  visions  of  bliss  which  they  excited  still 
glowed  on  my  imagination.  I  was  then  standing  in  one  of  my 
favourite  retreats.  It  was  a  little  alcove,  overshadowed  with 
willows,  and  a  mossy  seat  at  the  back  invited  to  rest.  I  laid 
myself  listlessly  on  the  bank.  The  Trent  murmured  softly  at 
my  feet,  and  the  willows  sighed  as  they  waved  over  my  head. 
It  was  the  holy  moment  of  repose,  and  I  soon  sunk  into  a  deep 
sleep.    The  operations  of  fancy  in  a  slumber,  induced  oy  a 


HEN11Y  KlttKE  WHITE.  403 

combination  of  circumstances  so  powerful  and  uncommon,  could 
not  fail  to  be  wild  and  romantic  in  the  extreme.  Methought 
X  found  myself  in  an  extensive  area,  filled  with  an  immense 
concourse  of  people.  At  one  end  was  a  throne  of  adamant, 
on  which  sat  a  female,  in  whose  aspect  I  immediately  recog- 
nised a  divinity.  She  was  clad  in  a  garb  of  azure ;  on  her 
forehead  she  bore  a  sun,  whose  splendour  the  eyes  of  many 
were  unable  to  bear,  and  whose  rays  illumined  the  whole  space, 
and  penetrated  into  the  deepest  recesses  of  darkness.  The 
aspect  of  the  goddess  at  a  distance  was  forbidding,  but  on  a 
nearer  approach  it  was  mild  and  engaging.  Her  eyes  were 
blue  and  piercing,  and  there  was  a  fascination  in  her  smile 
which  charmed  as  if  by  enchantment.  The  air  of  intelligence 
which  beamed  in  her  look  made  the  beholder  shrink  into 
himself  with  the  consciousness  of  inferiority ;  yet  the  affability 
of  her  deportment,  and  the  simplicity  and  gentleness  of  her 
manners  soon  reassured  him,  while  the  bewitching  softness 
which  she  could  at  times  assume,  won  his  permanent  esteem. 
On  inquiry  of  a  bystander  who  it  was  that  sat  on  the  throne, 
and  what  was  the  occasion  of  so  uncommon  an  assembly,  he 
informed  me  that  it  was  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  who  had  at 
last  succeeded  in  regaining  the  dominion  of  the  earth,  which 
folly  had  so  long  usurped.  That  she  sat  there  in  her  judicial 
capacity,  in  order  to  try  the  merits  of  many  who  were  sup- 
posed to  bb  the  secret  emissaries  of  Eolly.  In  this  way  I 
understood  Envy  and  Malevolence  had  been  sentenced  to  per- 
petual banishment,  though  several  of  their  adherents  yet 
remained  among  men,  whose  minds  were  too  gross  to  be  irra- 
diated with  the  light  of  wisdom.  One  trial  I  understood  was 
just  ended,  and  another  supposed  delinquent  was  about  to  be 
put  to  the  bar.  With  much  curiosity  I  hurried  forwards  to 
survey  the  figure  which  now  approached.  She  was  habited 
in  black,  and  veiled  to  the  waist.  Her  pace  was  solemn  and 
majestic,  yet  in  every  movement  was  a  winning  gracefulness. 
As  she  approached  to  the  bar  I  got  a  nearer  view  of  her,  when 
what  was  my  astonishment  to  recognise  in  her  the  person  of 
my  favourite  goddess,  Melancholy.  Amazed  that  she  whom 
I  had  always  looked  upon  as  the  sister  and  companion  of 
DD  2 


404 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


Wisdom  should  be  brought  to  trial  as  an  emissary  and  an 
adherent  of  Polly,  I  waited  in  mute  impatience  for  the  accu- 
sation w'lich  could  be  framed  against  her.  On  looking  towards 
the  centre  of  the  area,  I  was  much  surprised  to  see  a  bustling 
little  Cit  of  my  acquaintance,  who,  by  his  hemming  and  clear- 
ing, I  concluded  was  going  to  make  the  charge.  As  he  was 
a  self-important  little  fellow,  full  of  consequence  and  business, 
and  totally  incapable  of  all  the  finer  emotions  of  the  soul,  I 
could  not  conceive  what  ground  of  complaint  he  could  have 
against  Melancholy,  who,  I  was  persuaded,  would  never  have 
designed  to  take  up  her  residence  for  a  moment  in  his  breast- 
When  I  recollected,  however,  that  he  had  some  sparks  of 
ambition  in  his  composition,  and  that  he  was  an  envious,  carp- 
ing little  mortal,  who  had  formed  the  design  of  shouldering 
himself  into  notice  by  decrying  the  defects  of  others,  while 
he  was  insensible  to  his  own,  my  amazement  and  my  appre- 
hensions vanished  as  I  perceived  he  only  wanted  to  make  a 
display  of  his  own  talents,  in  doing  which  I  did  not  fear  his 
making  himself  sufficiently  ridiculous. 

After  a  good  deal  of  irrelevant  circumlocution,  he  boldly 
began  the  accusation  of  Melancholy.  I  shall  not  dwell  upon 
manv  absurd  and  many  invidious  parts  of  his  speech,  nor  upon 
the  many  blunders  in  the  misapplication  of  words,  such  as  "de- 
duce" for  "  detract"  and  others  of  a  similar  nature,  which  my 
poor  friend  committed  in  the  course  of  his  harangue,  but  shall 
only  dwell  upon  the  material  parts  of  the  charge. 

He  represented  the  prisoner  as  the  offspring  of  Idleness  and 
Discontent,  who  was  at  all  times  a  sulky,  sullen,  and  "emu 
nently  useless"  member  of  the  community,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  a  very  dangerous  one.  He  declared  it  to  be  his 
opinion,  that  in  case  she  were  to  be  suffered  to  prevail,  mankind 
would  soon  become  "  too  idle  to  go"  and  would  all  lie  down 
and  perish  through  indolence,  or  through  forgetting  that  sus- 
tenance was  necessary  for  the  preservation  of  existence :  and 
concluded  with  painting  the  horrors  which  would  attend  such 
a  depopulation  of  the  earth,  in  such  colours  as  made  many 
weak  minds  regard  the  goddess  with  fear  and  abhorrer  ce. 

Having  concluded,  the  accused  was  called  udqu  for  her 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


405 


defence.  She  immediately,  with  a  graceful  gesture,  lifted  up 
the  veil  which  concealed  her  face,  and  discovered  a  counte- 
nance so  soft,  so  lovely,  and  so  sweetly  expressive,  as  to  strike 
the  beholders  with  involuntary  admiration,  and  which,  at  one 
glance,  overturned  ail  the  flimsy  sophistry  of  my  poor  friend 
the  citizen  ;  and  when  the  silver  tones  of  her  voice  were  heard, 
the  murmurs  which  until  then  had  continually  arisen  from  the 
crowd,  were  hushed  to  a  dead  still,  and  the  whole  multil  ude 
stood  transfixed  in  breathless  attention.  As  near  as  I  can 
recollect,  these  were  the  words  in  which  she  addressed  her- 
self to  the  throne  of  wisdom. 

"  I  shall  not  deign  to  give  a  direct  ansiver  to  the  various 
insinuations  which  have  been  thrown  out  against  me  by  my 
accuser.  Let  it  suffice  that  I  declare  my  true  history,  in 
opposition  to  that  wrhich  has  been  so  artfully  fabricated  to  my 
disadvantage.  In  that  early  age  of  the  world  when  mankind 
followed  the  peaceful  avocations  of  a  pastoral  life  only,  and 
contentment  and  harmony  reigned  in  every  vale,  I  was  not 
known  among  men ;  but  when,  in  process  of  time,  Ambition 
and  Vice,  with  their  attendant  evils,  were  sent  down  as  a 
scourge  to  the  human  race,  I  made  my  appearance.  I  am  the 
offspring  of  Misfortune  and  Yirtue,  and  was  sent  by  Heaven 
to  teach  my  parents  how  to  support  their  afflictions  with  mag- 
nanimity. As  I  grew  up,  I  became  the  intimate  friend  of  the 
wisest  among  men.  I  was  the  bosom  friend  of  Plato  and 
other  illustrious  sages  of  antiquity,  and  was  then  often  known 
by  the  name  of  Philosophy,  though,  in  present  times,  when 
that  title  is  usurped  by  mere  makers  of  experiments  and 
inventors  of  blacking  cakes,  I  am  only  known  by  the  appella- 
tion of  Melancholy.  So  far  from  being  a  discontented  dispo- 
sition, my  very  essence  is  pious  and  resigned  contentment.  I 
teach  my  votaries  to  support  every  vicissitude  of  fortune  with 
calmness  and  fortitude.  It  is  mine  to  subdue  the  stormy  pro- 
pensities of  passion  and  vice,  to  foster  and  encourage  the 
principles  of  benevolence  and  philanthropy,  and  to  cherish  and 
bring  to  perfection  the  seeds  of  virtue  and  wisdom.  Though 
feared  and  hated  by  those  who,  like  my  accuser,  are  ignorant 
of  my  nature,  I  am  courted  and  cherished  by  all  the  truly 


406 


PKOSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


wise,  the  good,  and  the  great;  the  poet  woos  ine  as  the  god- 
dess of  inspiration ;  the  trne  philosopher  acknowledges  himself 
indebted  to  me  for  his  most  expansive  views  of  human  nature ; 
the  good  man  owes  to  me  that  hatred  of  the  wrong  and  love 
of  the  right,  and  that  disdain  for  the  consequences  which 
may  result  from  the  performance  of  his  duties,  which  keeps 
him  good ;  and  the  religious  flies  to  me  for  the  only  clear  and 
■unencumbered  view  of  the  attributes  and  perfections  of  the 
Deity.  So  far  from  being  idle,  my  mind  is  ever  on  the  wing 
in  the  regions  of  fancy,  or  that  true  philosophy  which  opens 
the  book  of  human  nature,  and  raises  the  soul  above  the  evils 
incident  to  life.  If  I  am  useless,  in  the  same  degree  were 
Plato  and  Socrates,  Locke  and  Paley  -useless ;  it  is  true  that 
my  immediate  influence  is  confined,  but  its  effects  are  dissemi- 
nated by  means  of  literature  over  every  age  and  nation,  and 
mankind,  in  every  generation  and  in  every  clime,  may  look 
to  me  as  their  remote  illuminator,  the  original  spring  of  the 
principal  intellectual  benefits  they  possess.  But  as  there  is 
no  good  without  its  attendant  evil,  so  I  have  an  elder  sister, 
called  Frenzy,  for  whom  I  have  often  been  mistaken,  who 
sometimes  follows  close  on  my  steps,  and  to  her  I  owe  much 
of  the  obloquy  which  is  attached  to  my  name,  though  the 
puerile  accusation  which  has  just  been  brought  against  me, 
turns  on  points  which  apply  more  exclusively  to  myself." 

She  ceased,  and  a  dead  pause  ensued.  The  multitude  seemed 
struck  with  the  fascination  of  her  utterance  and  gesture,  and 
the  sounds  of  her  voice  still  seemed  to  vibrate  on  every  ear. 
The  attention  of  the  assembly,  however,  was  soon  recalled  to 
the  accuser,  and  their  indignation  at  his  baseness  rose  to  such 
a  height  as  to  threaten  general  tumult,  when  the  goddess  of 
wisdom  arose,  and  waving  her  hand  for  silence,  beckoned  the 
prisoner  to  her,  placed  her  on  her  right  hand,  and  with  a  sweet 
.smile  acknowledged  her  for  her  old  companion  and  friend.  She 
then  turned  to  the  accuser,  with  a  frown  of  severity  so  terrible, 
that  I  involuntarily  started  with  terror  from  my  poor  misguided 
friend,  and  with  the  violence  of  the  start  I  awoke,  and  instead 
of  the  throne  of  the  goddess  of  wisdom,  and  the  vast  assembly 
of  people,  beheld  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  peeping  ovei 


HENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 


407 


the  eastern  cloud,  and  instead  of  the  loud  murmurs  of  the 
incensed  multitude,  heard  nothing  but  the  soft  gurgling  of  the 
river  at  my  feet,  and  the  rustling  wing  of  the  skylark,  who  was 
now  beginning  his  first  matin  sons:. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. — No.  IV. 

^KOTrrfffafJiSVOQ  tvpiatcov  ovCajiojg  av  aWtog  ovrog  via7rpa%aiitvog. 

Isoci?. 

The  world  has  often  heard  of  fortune-hunters,  legacy-hunters, 
popularity-hunters,  and  hunters  of  various  descriptions — one 
diversity,  however,  of  this  very  extensive  species  has  hitherto 
eluded  public  animadversion ;  I  allude  to  the  class  of  friend- 
hunters;  men  who  make  it  the  business  of  their  lives  to  acquire 
friends,  in  the  hope,  through  their  influence,  to  arrive  at  some 
desirable  point  of  ambitious  eminence.  Of  all  the  mortifica- 
tions and  anxieties  to  which  mankind  voluntarily  subject 
themselves,  from  the  expectation  of  future  benefit,  there  are, 
perhaps,  none  more  galling,  none  more  insupportable,  than 
those  attendant  on  friend-making.  Show  a  man  that  you 
court  his  society,  and  it  is  a  signal  for  him  to  treat  you  with 
neglect  and  contumely.  Humour  his  passions,  and  he  despises 
you  as  a  sycophant.  Pay  implicit  deference  to  his  opinions, 
and  he  laughs  at  you  for  your  folly.  In  all  he  views  you 
with  contempt,  as  the  creature  of  his  will,  as  the  slave  of 
his  caprice.  I  remember  I  once  solicited  the  acquaintance 
and  coveted  the  friendship  of  one  man,  and,  thank  God,  I 
can  yet  say  (and  I  hope  on  my  death-bed  I  shall  be  able  to 
say  the  same),  of  only  one  man. 

Germanicus  was  a  character  of  considerable  eminence  in 
the  literary  world.  He  had  the  reputation  not  only  of  an 
enlightened  understanding  and  refined  taste  but  of  openness 
of  heart  and  goodness  of  disposition.  His  name  always 
carried  with  it  that  weight  and  authority  which  are  due  to 
learning  and  genius  in  every  situation.    His  manners  were 


408 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


polished  and  his  conversation  elegant.  In  short,  he  possessed 
every  qualification  which  could  render  him  an  enviable 
addition  to  the  circle  every  man's  friends.  With  such  a 
character,  as  I  was  then  very  young,  I  could  not  fail  to  feel 
an  ambition  of  becoming  acquainted,  when  the  opportunity 
offered,  and  in  a  short  time  we  were  upon  terms  of  familiarity, 
To  ripen  this  familiarity  into  friendship,  as  far  as  the  most 
awkward  diffidence  would  permit,  was  my  strenuous  endea- 
vour. If  his  opinions  contradicted  mine,  I  immediately, 
without  reasoning  on  the  subject,  conceded  the  point  to 
him,  as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  must  be  right,  and  by 
consequence  that  I  must  be  wrong.  Did  he  utter  a  witticism, 
I  was  sure  to  laugh ;  and  if  he  looked  grave,  though  no- 
body could  tell  why,  it  was  mine  to  groan.  By  thus  con- 
forming myself  to  his  humour,  I  nattered  myself  I  was 
making  some  progress  in  his  good  graces,  but  1  was  soon 
undeceived.  A  man  seldom  cares  much  for  that  which  cost 
him  no  pains  to  procure.  Whether  Germanicus  found  me 
a  troublesome  visitor,  or  whether  he  was  really  displeased 
with  something  I  had  unwittingly  said  or  done,  certain  it  is, 
that  when  I  met  him  one  day,  in  company  with  persons  of 
apparent  figure,  he  had  lost  all  recollection  of  my  features. 
I  called  upon  him,  but  Germanicus  was  not  at  home.  Again 
and  again  I  gave  a  hesitating  knock  at  the  great  man's  door — 
all  was  to  no  purpose.  He  was  still  not  at  home.  The  sly 
meaning,  however,  which  was  couched  in  the  sneer  of  the 
servant  the  last  time,  that,  half  ashamed  of  my  errand,  I 
made  my  inquiries  at  his  house,  convinced  me  of  a  hat  I 
ought  to  have  known  before — that  Germanicus  was  at  home 
to  all  the  world  save  me.  I  believe,  with  all  my  seeming 
humility,  I  am  a  confounded  proud  fellow  at  bottom ;  my  rage 
at  this  discovery,  therefore,  may  be  better  conceived  than 
described.  Ten  thousand  curses  did  I  imprecate  on  the 
foolish  vanity  which  led  me  to  solicit  the  friendship  of  my 
superior,  and  again  and  again  did  I  vow  down  eternal 
vengeance  on  my  head,  if  I  ever  more  condescended  thus  to 
court  the  acquaintance  of  man.  To  this  resolution  I  believe 
I  shall  ever  adhere.    If  I  am  destined  to  make  any  progress 


ITENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 


409 


in  the  world,  it  will  be  by  my  own  individual  exertions.  As 
I  elbow  my  way  through  the  crowded  vale  of  life,  I  will  never, 
in  any  emergency,  call  on  my  selfish  neighbour  for  assistance. 
If  my  strength  give  way  beneath  the  pressure  of  calamity, 
I  shall  sink  without  his  whine  of  hypocritical  condolence, 
and  if  I  do  sink,  let  him  kick  me  into  a  ditch  and  go  about 
his  business.  I  asked  not  his  assistance  while  living — it  will 
be  of  no  service  to  me  when  dead. 

Believe  me,  reader,  whoever  thou  mayest  be,  there  are  few 
among  mortals  whose  friendship,  when  acquired,  will  repay 
thee  for  the  meanness  of  solicitation.  If  a  man  voluntarily 
holds  out  his  hand  to  thee,  take  it  with  caution.  If  thou 
find  him  honest,  be  not  backward  to  receive  his  proffered 
assistance,  and  be  anxious,  when  occasion  shall  require,  to 
yield  to  him  thine  own.  A  real  friend  is  the  most  valuable 
blessing  a  man  can  possess,  and,  mark  me,  it  is  by  far  the 
most  rare.  It  is  a  black  swan.  But,  whatever  thou  mayest 
do,  solicit  not  friendship.  If  thou  art  youug,  and  would  make 
thy  way  in  the  world,  bind  thyself  a  seven  years'  apprentice- 
ship to  a  city  tallow-chandler,  and  thou  mayest  in  time  come 
to  be  lord  mayor.  Many  people  have  made  their  fortunes  at 
a  tailor's  board.  Perriwig  makers  have  been  known  to  buy 
their  country  seats,  and  bellows -menders  have  started  their 
curricles ;  but  seldom,  very  seldom,  has  the  man  who  placed 
his  dependence  on  the  friendship  of  his  fellow  men  arrived  at 
even  the  shadow  of  the  honour  to  which,  through  that 
medium,  he  aspired.  Nay,  even  if  thou  shouldst  find  a  friend 
ready  to  lend  thee  a  helping  hand,  the  moment,  by  his  assist- 
ance, thou  hast  gained  some  little  eminence,  he  will  be  the 
first  to  hurl  thee  down  to  thy  primitive,  and  now,  perhaps, 
irremediable  obscurity. 

Yet  I  see  no  more  reason  for  complaint  on  the  ground  of 
the  fallacy  of  human  friendship,  than  I  do  for  any  other 
ordinance  of  nature,  which  may  appear  to  run  counter  to 
our  happiness.  Man  is  naturally  a  selfish  creature,  and  it  is 
only  by  the  aid  of  philosophy  that  he  can  so  far  conquer  the 
defects  of  his  being  as  to  be  capable  of  disinterested  friend- 
ship.   Wlio,  then,  can  expect  to  find  that  benign  disposition 


410 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


which  manifests  itself  in  acts  of  disinterested  benevolence 
and  spontaneous  affection,  a  common  visitor?  "Who  can 
preach  philosophy  to  the  mob  P* 

The  recluse,  who  does  not  easily  assimilate  with  the  herd 
of  mankind,  and  whose  manners  with  difficulty  bend  to  the 
peculiarities  of  others,  is  not  likely  to  have  many  real  friends. 
His  enjoyments,  therefore,  must  be  solitary,  lone,  and  melan- 
choly. His  only  friend  is  himself.  As  he  sits  immersed  in 
reverie  by  his  midnight  fire,  and  hears  without  the  wild  gusts 
of  wind  fitfully  careering  over  the  plain,  he  listens  sadly 
attentive ;  and  as  the  varied  intonations  of  the  howling  blast 
articulate  to  his  enthusiastic  ear,  he  converses  with  the  spirits 
of  the  departed,  while,  between  each  dreary  pause  of  the  storm, 
lie  holds  solitary  communion  with  himself.  Such  is  the  social 
intercourse  of  the  recluse ;  yet  he  frequently  feels  the  soft 
consolations  of  friendship.  A  heart  formed  for  the  gentler 
emotions  of  the  soul,  often  feels  as  strong  an  interest  for 
what  are  called  brutes,  as  most  bipeds  afiect  to  feel  for  each 
other.  Montaigne  had  his  cat ;  I  have  read  of  a  man  whose 
only  friend  was  a  large  spider ;  and  Trenck,  in  his  dungeon, 
would  sooner  have  lost  his  right  hand,  than  the  poor  little 
mouse,  which,  grown  confident  with  indulgence,  used  to 
beguile  the  tedious  hours  of  imprisonment  with  its  gambols. 
Fov  my  own  part,  I  believe  my  dog,  who,  at  this  moment, 
seated  on  his  hinder  legs,  is  wistfully  surveying  me,  as  if 
he  was  conscious  of  all  that  is  passing  in  my  mind : — my 
dog,  I  say,  is  as  sincere,  and,  whatever  the  world  may  say, 
nearly  as  dear  a  friend  as  any  I  possess  ;  and,  when  I  shall 
receive  that  summons  which  may  not  now  be  far  distant,  he 
will  whine  a  funeral  requiem  over  my  grave,  more  piteously 
than  all  the  hired  mourners  of  Ghristendom.  Well,  well, 
poor  Bob  has  had  a  kind  master  in  me,  and,  for  my  own  part, 

*  By  the  word  mob  here,  the  author  does  not  mean  to  include 
merely  the  lower  classes.  In  the  present  acceptation,  it  takes  in 
a  great  part  of  the  mob  of  quality:  men  who  are  either  too  ignorant, 
or  too  much  taken  up  with  base  and  grovelling  pursuits,  to  have 
room  for  any  of  the  more  amiable  affections. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


411 


1  verily  believe  there  are  few  things  on  this  earth  I  shall  leave 
with  more  regret  than  this  faithful  companion  of  the  happy 
hours  of  my  infancy. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. — No.  V. 

"  (J)i  sonnet  sarin  defaut  vaut  seul  un  tony  jjoemc, 
Mais  en  vain  mille  autenrs  y  pensent  arriver  ; 
A  peine  *         *  *  * 

*  *  peut-oii  admirer  deux  on  trois  entre  mille." 

BoiLEAU. 

There  is  no  species  of  poetry  which  is  better  adapted  to 
the  taste  of  a  melancholy  man  than  the  sonnet.  While  its 
brevity  precludes  the  possibility  of  its  becoming  tiresome,  and 
its  full  and  expected  close  accords  well  with  his  dejected  and 
perhaps  somewhat  languid  tone  of  mind,  its  elegiac  delicacy 
and  querimonious  plaintiveness  come  in  pleasing  consonance 
with  his  feelings. 

This  elegant  little  poem  has  met  with  a  peculiar  fate  in  this 
country :  half  a  century  ago  it  was  regarded  as  utterly  repug- 
nant to  the  nature  of  our  language,  while  at  present  it  is  the 
popular  vehicle  of  the  most  admired  sentiments  of  our  best 
living  poets.  This  remarkable  mutation  in  the  opinions  of 
onr  countrymen  may,  however,  be  accounted  for  on  plain  and 
common  principles.  The  earlier  English  sonnettcers  confined 
themselves  in  general  too  strictly  to  the  Italian  model,  as  well 
in  the  disposition  of  the  rhymes  as  in  the  cast' of  the  ideas. 
A  sonnet  with  them  was  only  another  word  for  some  meta- 
physical conceit,  or  clumsy  antithesis,  contained  in  fourteen 
harsh  lines,  full  of  obscure  inversions  and  ill-managed  ex- 
pletives. They  bound  themselves  down  to  a  pattern  which 
was  in  itself  faulty,  and  they  met  with  the  common  fate  of 
servile  imitators  in  retaining  all  the  defects  of  their  original, 
while  they  suffered-  the  beauties  to  escape  in  the  process. 
Their  sonnets  are  like  copies  of  a  bad  picture :  however 
accurately  copied,  they  are  still  bad.    Our  contemporaries, 


412 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


on  the  contrary,  have  given  scope  to  their  genius  in  t\j^ 
sonnet  without  restraint,  sometimes  even  growing  licentious  in 
their  liberty,  setting  at  defiance  those  rules  which  form  its 
distinguishing  peculiarity,  and,  under  the  name  of  sonnet, 
soaring  or  falling  into  ode  or  elegy.  Their  compositions,  of 
course,  are  impressed  with  all  those  excellences  which  would 
have  marked  their  respective  productions  in  any  similar  walk 
of  poetry. 

It  has  never  been  disputed  that  the  sonnet  first  arrived  at 
celebrity  in  the  Italian ;  a  language  which,  as  it  abounds  in  a 
musical  similarity  of  terminations,  is  more  eminently  qualified 
to  give  ease  and  elegance  to  the  legitimate  sonnet,  restricted 
as  it  is  to  stated  and  frequently -recurring  rhymes  of  the  same 
class.  As  to  the  inventors  of  this  little  structure  of  verse, 
they  are  involved  in  impenetrable  obscurity.  Some  authors 
have  ascribed  it  singly  to  Guitone  D'Arezzo,  an  Italian  poet 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  but  they  have  no  sort  of  authority 
to  adduce  in  support  of  their  assertions.  Arguing  upon  pro- 
babilities, with  some  slight  coincidental  corroborations,  I 
should  be  inclined  to  maintain  that  its  origin  may  be  referred 
to  an  earlier  period ;  that  it  may  be  looked  for  amongst  the 
Provencals,  who  left  scarcely  any  combination  of  metrical 
sounds  unattempted;  and  who,  delighting  as  they  did  in  sound 
and  jingle,  might  very  possibly  strike  out  this  harmonious 
stanza  of  fourteen  lines.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Dante  and  Petrarch 
were  the  first  poets  who  rendered  it  popular,  and  to  Dante  and 
Petrarch  therefore  we  must  resort  for  its  required  rules. 

In  an  ingenious  paper  of  Dr.  Drake's  "  Literary  Hours,"  a 
book  which  I  have  read  again  and  again  with  undiminished 
pleasure,  the  merits  of  the  various  English  writers  in  this 
delicate  mode  of  composition  are  appreciated  with  much 
justice  and  discrimination.  His  veneration  for  Milton,  how- 
ever, has,  if  I  may  venture  to  oppose  my  judgment  to  his, 
carried  him  too  far  in  praise  of  his  sonnets.  Those  to  the 
Nightingale  and  to  Mr.  Lawrence  are,  I  think,  alone  entitled 
to  the  praise  of  mediocrity,  and,  if  my  memory  fail  me  not, 
my  opinion  is  sanctioned  by  the  testimony  of  our  late  illus- 
trious biographer  of  the  poets. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


413 


The  sonnets  of  Drummond  are  characterized  as  exquisite. 
It  is  somewhat  strange,  if  this  description  be  just,  that  they 
should  so  long  have  sunk  into  utter  oblivion,  to  be  revived 
only  by  a  species  of  black-letter  mania,  which  prevailed  during 
the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  of  which  some 
vestiges  yet  remain ;  the  more  especially  as  Dr.  Johnson,  to 
whom  they  could  scarcely  be  unknown,  tells  us,  that  "  The 
fabric  of  the  sonnet  has  never  succeeded  in  our  language." 
Eor  my  own  part,  I  can  say  nothing  of  them,  I  have  long 
sought  a  copy  of  Drummond' s  works,  and  I  have  sought  it  in 
vain;  but  from  specimens  which  I  have  casually  met  with, 
in  quotations,  I  am  forcibly  inclined  to  favour  the  idea,  that, 
as  they  possess  natural  and  pathetic  sentiments,  clothed  in 
tolerably  harmonious  language,  they  are  entitled  to  the  praise 
which  has  been  so  liberally  bestowed  on  them. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney's  "  Astrophel  and  Stella"  consists  of  a  num- 
ber of  sonnets,  which  have  been  unaccountably  passed  over  by 
Dr.  Drake  and  all  our  other  critics  who  have  written  on  this 
subject.  Many  of  them  are  eminently  beautiful.  The  works 
of  this  neglected  poet  may  occupy  a  future  number  of  my 
lucubrations. 

Excepting  these  two  poets,  I  believe  there  is  scarcely  a 
writer  who  has  arrived  at  any  degree  of  excellence  in  the 
sonnet,  until  of  late  years,  when  our  vernacular  bards  have 
raised  it  to  a  degree  of  eminence  and  dignity,  among  the 
various  kinds  of  poetical  composition,  which  seems  almost 
incompatible  with  its  very  circumscribed  limits. 

Passing  over  the  classical  compositions  of  Warton,  which 
are  formed  more  on  the  model  of  the  Greek  epigram,  or 
epitaph,  than  the  Italian  sonnet,  Mr.  Bowles  and  Charlotte 
Smith  are  the  first  modern  writers  who  have  met  with  dis- 
tinguished success  in  the  sonnet.  Those  of  the  former,  in 
particular,  are  standards  of  excellence  in  this  department.  To 
much  natural  and  accurate  description,  they  unite  a  strain  of 
the  most  exquisitely  tender  and  delicate  sentiment ;  and  with 
a  nervous  strength  of  diction  and  a  wild  freedom  of  versi- 
fication, they  combine  an  euphonious  melody  and  consonant 
cadence  uneaualled  in  the  English  language.    While  they 


414 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


possess,  however,  the  superior  merit  of  an  original  style,  they 
are  not  nnfreqnently  deformed  by  instances  of  that  ambitious 
singularity  which  is  but  too  frequently  its  concomitant.  Of 
these  the  introduction  of  rhymes  long  since  obsolete  is  not  the 
least  striking.  Though,  in  some  cases,  these  revivals  of  anti- 
quated phrase  have  a  pleasing  effect,  yet  they  are  oftentimes 
uncouth  and  repulsive.  Mr.  Bowles  has  almost  always  thrown 
aside  the  common  rules  of  the  sonnet;  his  pieces  have  no 
more  claim  to  that  specific  denomination  than  that  they  are 
confined  to  fourteen  lines.  How  far  this  deviation  from 
established  principle  is  justifiable  may  be  disputed ;  for  if,  on 
the  one  hand,  it  be  alleged  that  the  confinement  to  the  stated 
repetition  of  rhymes,  so  distant  and  frequent,  is  a  restraint 
which  is  not  compensated  by  an  adequate  effect ;  on  the  other, 
it  must  be  conceded,  that  these  little  poems  are  no  longer 
.sonnets  than  while  they  conform  to  the  rules  of  the  sonnet, 
and  that  the  moment  they  forsake  them  they  ought  to  resign 
the  appellation. 

The  name  bears  evident  affinity  to  the  Italian  sondire,  "to 
resound" — "sing  around"  which  originated  in  the  Latin 
sonans, — sounding,  jingling,  ringing :  or,  indeed,  it  may 
come  immediately  from  the  French  sonner,  to  sound,  or  ring, 
in  which  language,  it  is  observable,  we  first  meet  with  the 
word  sonnette,  where  it  signifies  a  little  bell,  and  sonnetiier 
a  maker  of  little  bells ;  and  this  derivation  affords  a  pre- 
sumption, almost  amounting  to  certainty,  that  the  conjecture 
before  advanced,  that  the  sonnet  originated  with  the  Pro- 
vencals, is  well  founded.  It  is  somewhat  strange  that  these 
contending  derivations  have  not  been  before  observed,  as  they 
tend  to  settle  a  question  which,  however  intrinsically  unim- 
portant, is  curious,  and  has  been  much  agitated. 

But,  wherever  the  name  originated,  it;  evidently  bears  rela- 
tion only  to  the  peculiarity  of  a  set  of  chiming  and  jingling 
terminations,  and  of  course  can  no  longer  be  applied  with 
propriety  where  that  peculiarity  is  not  preserved. 

The  single  stanza  of  fourteen  lines,  properly  varied  in  their 
correspondent  closes,  is,  notwithstanding,  so  well  adapted  for 
the  expression  of  any  pathetic  sentiment,  and  is  so  pleasing 


HENRY  KIEKE  WHITE. 


415 


and  satisfactory  to  the  car,  when  once  accustomed  to  it,  that 
our  poetry  would  suffer  a  material  ioss  were  it  to  be  disused 
through  a  rigid  adherence  to  mere  propriety  of  name.  At  the 
same  time,  our  language  does  not  supply  a  sufficiency  of  similar 
terminations  to  render  the  strict  observance  of  its  rules  at  all 
easy  or  compatible  with  ease  or  elegance.  The  only  question, 
therefore,  is,  whether  the  musical  effect  produced  by  the 
adherence  to  this  difficult  structure  of  verse  overbalance  the 
restraint  it  imposes  on  the  poet,  and  in  case  we  decide  in  the 
negative,  whether  we  ought  to  preserve  the  denomination  of 
sonnet,  when  we  utterly  renounce  the  very  peculiarities  which 
procured  it  that  cognomen. 

In  the  present  enlightened  age,  I  think  it  will  not  be  dis- 
puted that  mere  jingle  and  sound  ought  invariably  to  be 
sacrificed  to  sentiment  and  expression.  Musical  effect  is  a 
very  subordinate  consideration;  it  is  the  gilding  to  the  cor- 
nices of  a  Yitruvian  edifice ;  the  colouring  to  a  shaded  design 
of  Michael  Angelo.  In  its  place  it  adds  to  the  effect  of  the 
whole,  but  when  rendered  a  principal  object  of  attention  it  is- 
ridiculous  and  disgusting,  llhyme  is  no  necessary  adjunct  of 
true  poetry.  Southcy's  "  Thalaba"  is  a  fine  poem,  with  no  rhyme 
and  very  little  measure  or  metre ;  and  the  production  winch  is 
reduced  to  mere  prose  by  being  deprived  of  its  jingle,  could 
never  possess,  in  any  state,  the  marks  of  inspiration. 

So  far,  therefore,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  is  advisable  to 
renounce  the  Italian  fabric  altogether.  We  have  already 
sufficient  restrictions  laid  upon  us  by  the  metrical  laws  of  our 
native  tongue,  and  I  do  not  see  any  reason,  out  of  a  blind 
regard  for  precedent,  to  tie  ourselves  to  a  difficult  structure  of 
versa,  which  probably  originated  with  the  Troubadours,  or 
wandering  bards  of  France  and  Normandy,  or  with  a  yet  ruder 
race  ;  one  which  is  not  productive  of  any  rational  effect,  and 
which  only  pleases  the  ear  by  frequent  repetition,  as  men  who 
have  once  had  the  greatest  aversion  to  strong  wines  and 
spirituous  liquors,  are,  by  habit,  at  last  brought  to  regard  them 
as  delicacies. 

.Ln  advancing  this  opinion,  I  am  aware  that  i  am  opposing 
myself  to  the  declared  sentiments  of  many  individuals  whom  I 


416 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


greatly  respect  and  admire.  Miss  Seward  (and  Miss  Seward 
is  in  herself  a  host)  has,  both  theoretically  and  practically, 
defended  the  Italian  structure.  Mr.  Capel  Lofft  has  likewise 
favoured  the  world  with  many  sonnets,  in  which  he  shows  his 
approval  of  the  legitimate  model  by  his  adherence  to  its  rules, 
and  many  of  the  beautiful  poems  of  Mrs.  Lofit,  published  in 
the  "Monthly  Mirror,"  are  likewise  successfully  formed  by  those 
rules.  Much,  however,  as  I  admire  these  writers,  and  ample 
as  is  the  credence  I  give  to  their  critical  discrimination,  I 
cannot,  on  mature  reflection,  subscribe  to  their  position  of  the 
expediency  of  adopting  this  structure  in  our  poetry,  and  I 
attribute  their  success  in  it  more  to  their  individual  powers, 
which  would  have  surmounted  much  greater  difficulties,  than 
to  the  adaptability  of  this  foreign  fabric  to  our  stubborn  and 
intractable  language. 

If  the  question,  however,  turn  only  on  the  propriety  of 
giving  to  a  poem  a  name  which  must  be  acknowledged  to  be 
entirely  inappropriate,  and  to  which  it  can  have  no  sort  of 
claim,  I  must  confess  that  it  is  manifestly  indefensible ;  and 
we  must  then  either  pitch  upon  another  appellation  for  our 
quatorzain,  or  banish  it  from  our  language ;  a  measure  which 
every  lover  of  true  poetry  must  sincerely  lament. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. — No.  VI. 

"  Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air." 

Gray. 

Poetry  is  a  blossom  of  very  delicate  growth  ;  it  requires  the 
maturing  influence  of  vernal  suns,  and  every  encouragement 
of  culture  and  attention,  to  bring  it  to  its  natural  perfection. 
The  pursuits  of  the  mathematician  or  the  mechanical  genius, 
are  such  as  require  rather  strength  and  insensibility  of  mind 
than  that  exquisite  and  finely  wrought  susceptibility,  wine'.) 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


417 


invariably  marks  the  temperament  of  the  true  poet ;  and  it  is 
for  this  reason,  that  while  men  of  science  have,  not  unfre- 
quently,  arisen  from  the  abodes  of  poverty  and  labour,  very 
few  legitimate  children  of  the  Muse  have  ever  emerged  from 
the  shades  of  hereditary  obscurity. 

It  is  painful  to  reflect  how  many  a  bard  now  lies,  nameless 
and  forgotten,  'n  the  narrow  house,  who,  had  lie  been  born  to 
oompetence  diad  leisure,  might  have  usurped  the  laurels  from 
the  most  iistinguished  personages  in  the  temple  of  Eame.  The 
very  consciousness  of  merit  itself  often  acts  in  direct  opposi- 
tion to  a  stimulus  to  exertion,  by  exciting  that  mournful  indig- 
nation at  supposititious  neglect  which  urges  a  sullen  concealment 
of  talents,  and  drives  its  possessors  to  that  misanthropic  dis- 
content which  preys  on  the  vitals,  and  soon  produces  untimely 
mortality.  A  sentiment  like  this  has,  no  doubt,  often  actuated 
beings  who  attracted  notice,  perhaps,  while  they  lived,  only 
by  their  singularity,  and  who  were  forgotten  almost  ere  their 
parent  earth  had  closed  over  their  heads — beings  who  lived 
but  to  mourn  and  to  languish  for  what  they  were  never  destined 
to  enjoy,  and  whose  exalted  endowments  were  buried  with 
them  in  their  graves,  by  the  want  of  a  little  of  that  superfluity 
which  serves  to  pamper  the  debased  appetites  of  the  enervated 
sons  of  luxury  and  sloth. 

The  present  age,  however,  has  furnished  us  with  two  illus- 
trious instances  of  poverty  bursting  through  the  cloud  of 
surrounding  impediments,  into  the  full  blaze  of  notoriety  and 
eminence.  I  allude  to  the  two  Bloomfields — bards  who  may 
challenge  a  comparison  with  the  most  distinguished  favourites 
of  the  Muse,  and  who  both  passed  the  day-spring  of  life  in 
labour,  indigence,  and  obscurity. 

The  author  of  the  "  Farmer's  Boy"  hath  already  received 
the  applause  he  justly  deserved.  It  yet  remains  for  the  "  Essay 
on  War"  to  enjoy  all  the  distinction  it  so  richly  merits,  as* 
well  from  its  sterling  worth,  as  from  the  circumstances  of  its 
author.  Whether  the  present  age  will  be  inclined  to  do  it  full 
justice,  may  indeed  be  feared.  Had  Mr.  Nathaniel  Bloomfield 
made  his  appearance  in  the  horizon  ol  letters  prior  to  uj& 


418 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


brother,  lie  would  undoubtedly  have  been  considered  as  a 
meteor  of  uncommon  attraction;  the  critics  would  have 
admired,  because  it  would  have  been  the  fashion  to  admire- 
Bat  it  is  to  be  apprehended  that  our  countrymen  become  inured 
to  phenomena : — it  is  to  be  apprehended  that  the  frivolity  of 
the  age  cannot  endure  a  repetition  of  the  uncommon — that  it 
will  no  longer  be  the  rage  to  patronize  indigent  merit — that 
the  beau  monde  will  therefore  neglect,  and  that,  by  a  necessary 
consequence,  the  critics  will  sneer ! 

Nevertheless,  sooner  or  later,  merit  will  meet  with  its 
reward ;  and  though  the  popularity  of  Mr.  Bloomfield  may  be 
delayed,  he  must,  at  one  time  or  other,  receive  the  meed  due 
to  Ins  deserts.  Posterity  will  judge  impartially :  and  if  bold 
and  vivid  images,  and  original  conceptions,  luminously  dis- 
played and  judiciously  apposed,  have  any  claim  to  the  regard 
of  mankind,  the  name  of  Nathaniel  Bloomfield  will  not  be 
without  its  high  and  appropriate  honours. 

Bousseau  very  truly  observes,  that  with  whatever  talent  a 
man  may  be  born,  the  art  of  writing  is  not  easily  obtained.  If 
this  be  applicable  to  men  enjoying  every  advantage  of  scho- 
lastic initiation,  how  much  more  forcibly  must  it  apply  to  the 
offspring  of  a  poor  village  tailor,  untaught,  and  destitute  both 
of  the  means  and  the  time  necessary  for  the  cultivation  of  the 
mind  !  If  the  art  of  writing  be  of  difficult  attainment  to  those 
who  make  it  the  study  of  their  lives,  what  must  it  be  to  him, 
who,  perhaps  for  the  first  forty  years  of  his  life,  never  ente^. 
tertained  a  thought  that  anything  he  could  write  would  be 
deemed  worthy  of  the  attention  of  the  public ! — whose  only 
time  for  rumination  was  such  as  a  sedentary  and  sickly  employ- 
ment would  allow;  on  the  tailor's  board,  surrounded  with 
men,  perhaps,  of  depraved  and  rude  habits,  and  impure  con- 
versation. 

And  yet,  that  Mr.  N.  Bloomfield' s  poems  display  acuteness 
of  remark  and  delicacy  of  sentiment,  combined  with  much 
strength  and  considerable  selection  of  diction,  few  will  deny. 
The  "  Paean  to  Gunpowder"  would  alone  prove  both  his  power  of 
language,  and  the  fertility  of  his  imagination ;  and  the  following 
extract  presents  him  to  us  in  the  still  higher  character  of  a 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE.  419 

i 

bold  and  vivid  painter.  Describing  the  field  after  a  battle, 
he  says — 

"  Now  here  and  there,  about  the  horrid  field, 
Striding  across  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Stalks  up  a  man,  by  strength  superior, 
Or  skill  and  prowess  in  the  arduous  fight, 
Preserved  alive  :  fainting  he  looks  around; 
Fearing  pursuit — not  caring  to  pursue. 
The  supplicating  voice  of  bitterest  moans, 
Contortions  of  excruciating  pain, 
The  shriek  of  torture,  and  the  groan  of  death, 
Surround  him ;  and  as  Night  her  mantle  spreads, 
To  veil  the  horrors  of  the  mourning  field, 
With  cautious  step  shaping  his  devious  way, 
He  seeks  a  covert  where  to  hide  and  rest : 
At  every  leat  that  rustles  in  the  breeze 
Starting,  he  grasps  his  sword;  and  every  nerve 
Is  ready  strain'd,  for  combat  or  for  flight." 

P.  12,  Essay  on  War, 

If  Mr.  Bloomfield  had  written  nothing  besides  the  "  Elegy 
on  the  Enclosure  of  Honington  Green/'  he  would  have  had  a 
right  to  be  considered  as  a  poet  of  no  mean  excellence.  The 
heart  which  can  read  passages  like  the  following  without  a  sym- 
pathetic emotion  must  be  dead  to  every  feeling  oi  sensibility, 

STANZA  VI. 

"  The  proud  city's  gay  wealthy  train, 

Who  nought  but  refinement  adore, 
May  wonder  to  hear  me  complain 

That  Honington  Green  is  no  more ; 
But  if  to  the  church  you  ere  went, 

If  you  knew  what  the  village  has  been, 
You  will  sympathize  while  I  lament 

The  enclosure  of  Honington  Green. 

VII. 

*  That  no  more  upon  Honington-green 

Dwells  the  matron  whom  most  I  revere^ 
If  by  pert  observation  unseen, 
1  e'en  now  could  indulge  a  fond  tear. 
E  E  2 


420 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


Fre  her  bright  morn  of  life  was  o'ercast, 
When  my  senses  first  woke  to  the  scene. 

Some  short  happy  hours  she  had  past 
On  the  margin  of  Honington  Green. 

Till. 

Her  parents  with  plenty  weue  blest, 

And  numerous  her  children,  and  young. 
Youth's  blossoms  her  cheek  yet  possest, 

And  melody  woke  when  she  sung: 
A  widow  so  youthful  to  leave 

(Early  closed  the  blest  days  he  had  seen). 
My  father  was  laid  in  his  grave, 

In  the  church-yard  on  Honington  Green, 
*  *  *  * 


"  Dear  to  me  was  the  wild  thorny  hill, 

And  dear  the  brown  heath's  sober  scene; 
And  youth  shall  find  happiness  still, 

Though  he  rove  not  on  common  or  green. 


"  80  happily  flexile  man's  make, 

So  pliantly  docile  his  mind, 
Surrounding  impressions  we  take, 

And  bliss  in  each  circumstance  find. 
The  youths  of  a  more  polished  age 

Shall  not  wish  these  rude  commons  to  see; 
To  the  bird  that's  enured  to  the  cage, 

It  would  not  be  bliss  to  be  free." 


There  is  a  sweet  and  tender  melancholy  pervades  the  elegiac 
ballad  efforts  of  Mr.  Eloomfield,  which  has  the  most  inde- 
scribable effects  on  the  heart.  Were  the  versification  a  little 
more  polished,  in  some  instances  they  would  be  read  with 
unmixt  delight.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  will  cultivate  this 
engaging  species  of  composition,  and  (if  I  may  ventu/e  to 
throw  out  the  hint)  if  judgment  may  bo  formed  from  the  poems 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


421 


he  lias  published,  he  would  excel  in  sacred  poetry.  Most 
heartily  do  I  recommend  the  lyre  of  David  to  this  engaging- 
bard.  Divine  topics  have  seldom  been  touched  upon  with 
success  by  our  modern  Muses ;  they  afford  a  field  in  which  he 
would  have  few  competitors,  and  it  is  a  field  worthy  of  his 
abilities. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. — No.  Vli.» 

If  the  situation  of  man,  in  the  present  life,  be  considered  in 
all  its  relations  and  dependencies,  a  striking  inconsistency  will 
be  apparent  to  every  cursory  observer.  We  have  sure  warrant 
for  believing  that  our  abode  here  is  to  form  a  comparatively 
insignificant  part  of  our  existence,  and  that  on  our  conduct  in 
this  life  will  depend  the  happiness  of  the  life  to  come ;  yet  our 
actions  daily  give  the  lie  to  this  proposition,  inasmuch  as  we 
commonly  act  like  men  who  have  no  thought  but  for  the  pre- 
sent scene,  and  to  whom  the  grave  is  the  boundary  of  anticipa- 
tion. But  this  is  not  the  only  paradox  which  humanity 
furnishes  to  the  eye  of  a  thinking  man.  It  is  very  generally 
the  case,  that  we  spend  our  whole  lives  in.  the  pursuit  of 
objects,  which  common  experience  informs  us  are  not  capable 
of  conferring  that  pleasure  and  satisfaction  which  we  expect 
from  their  enjoyment.  Our  views  are  uniformly  directed  to 
one  point — happiness,  in  whatever  garb  it  be  clad,  and  under 
whatever  figure  shadowed,  is  the  great  aim  of  the  busy  multi- 
tudes whom  we  behold  toiling  through  the  vale  of  life  in  such 
an  infinite  diversity  of  occupation  and  disparity  of  views. 
But  the  misfortune  is,  that  we  seek  for  happiness  where  she 
is  not  to  be  found,  and  the  cause  of  wonder,  that  the  experience 

*  My  predecessor,  the  "  Spectator,"  considering  that  the  seventh 
part  of  our  time  is  set  apart  for  religious  purposes,  devoted  every 
seventh  lucubration  to  matters  connected  with  Christianity  and  the 
severer  part  of  morals  :  I  trust  none  of  my  readers  will  regret  that, 
in  this  instance,  1  follow  so  good  an  example. 


422 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


of  ages  should  not  have  guarded  us  against  so  fatal  and  so 
universal  an  error. 

It  would  be  an  amusing  speculation  to  consider  the  various 
points  after  which  our  fellow  mortals  are  incessantly  straining, 
and  in  the  possession  of  which  they  have  placed  that  imaginary 
chief  good,  which  we  are  all  doomed  to  covet,  but  which, 
perhaps,  none  of  us,  in  this  sublunary  state,  can  attain.  At 
present,  however,  we  are  led  to  considerations  of  a  more  impor* 
tant  nature.  We  turn  from  the  inconsistencies  observable  in 
the  prosecution  of  our  subordinate  pursuits,  from  the  partial 
follies  of  individuals,  to  the  general  delusion  which  seems  to 
envelop  the  whole  human  race — the  delusion  under  whose 
influence  they  lose  sight  of  the  chief  end  of  their  being — and 
cut  down  the  sphere  of  their  hopes  and  enjoyments  to  a  few 
rolling  years,  and  that  too  in  a  scene  where  they  know  there 
is  neither  perfect  fruition  nor  permanent  delight. 

The  faculty  of  contemplating  mankind  in  the  abstract,  apart 
from  those  prepossessions  which,  both  by  nature  and  the  power 
of  habitual  associations,  would  intervene  to  cloud  our  view,  is 
only  to  be  obtained  by  a  life  of  virtue  and  constant  meditation, 
by  temperance,  and  purity  of  thought.  Whenever  it  is  attained, 
it  must  greatly  tend  to  correct  our  motives,  to  simplify  our 
desires,  and  to  excite  a  spirit  of  contentment  and  pious  resig- 
nation. We  then,  at  length,  are  enabled  to  contemplate  our 
being  in  all  its  bearings  and  in  its  full  extent,  and  the  result 
is,  that  superiority  to  common  views  and  indifference  to  the 
things  of  this  life  which  should  be  the  fruit  of  all  true  philo- 
sophy, and  which,  therefore,  are  the  more  peculiar  fruits  of 
that  system  of  philosophy  which  is  called  the  Christian. 

To  a  mind  thus  sublimed,  the  great  mass  of  mankind  will 
appear  like  men  led  astray  by  the  workings  of  wild  and  dis- 
tempered imaginations — visionaries  who  are  wandering  after 
the  phantoms  of  their  own  teeming  brains,  and  their  anxious 
solicitude  for  mere  matters  of  worldly  accommodation  and  ease 
will  seem  more  like  the  effects  of  insanity  than  of  prudent 
foresight,  as  they  are  esteemed.  To  the  awful  importance  of 
futurity  he  will  observe  them  utterly  insensible,  and  he  will 
see,  with  astonishment,  the  few  allotted  years  of  human  life 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


423 


wasted  in  providing  abundance  they  will  never  enjoy,  while 
the  eternity  they  are  placed  here  to  prepare  for  scarcely 
employs  a  moment's  consideration.  And  yet  the  mass  of  these 
poor  wanderers  in  the  ways  of  error  have  the  light  of  truth 
shining  on  their  very  foreheads.  They  have  the  revelation  of 
Almighty  God  himself,  to  declare  to  them  the  folly  of  worldly 
cares  and  the  necessity  for  providing  for  a  future  state  of 
existence.  They  know  by  the  experience  of  every  preceding 
generation,  that  a  very  small  portion  of  joy  is  allowed  to  the 
poor  sojourners  in  this  vale  of  tears,  and  that,  too,  embittered 
with  much  pain  and  fear ;  and  yet  every  one  is  willing  to  natter 
himself  that  he  shall  fare  better  than  his  predecessor  in  the 
same  path,  and  that  happiness  will  smile  on  him  which  hath 
frowned  on  all  his  progenitors. 

Still,  it  would  be  wrong  to  deny  the  human  race  all  claim 
to  temporal  felicity.  There  may  be  comparative,  although, 
very  little  positive  happiness ; — whoever  is  more  exempt  from 
the  cares  of  the  world  and  the  calamities  incident  to  humanity — 
whoever  enjoys  more  contentment  of  mind,  and  is  more  resigned 
to  the  dispensations  of  Divine  Providence — in  a  word,  whoever 
possesses  more  of  the  true  spirit  of  Christianity  than  his  neigh- 
bours, is  comparatively  happy.  But  the  number  of  these,  it  is 
to  be  feared,  is  very  small.  Were  all  men  equally  enlightened 
by  the  illuminations  of  truth,  as  emanating  from  the  spirit  of 
Jehovah  himself,  they  would  all  concur  in  the  pursuit  of  virtu- 
ous ends  by  virtuous  means — as  there  would  be  no  vice,  there 
would  be  very  little  infelicity.  Every  pain  would  be  met  with 
fortitude,  every  affliction  with  resignation.  We  should  then 
all  look  back  to  the  past  with  complacency,  and  to  the  future 
with  hope.  Even  this  unstable  state  of  being  would  have 
many  exquisite  enjoyments — the  principal  of  which  would  be 
the  anticipation  of  that  approaching  state  of  beatitude  to  which 
we  might  then  look  with  confidence,  through  the  medium  of 
that  atonement  of  which  we  should  be  partakers,  and  our 
acceptance,  by  virtue  of  which,  would  be  sealed  by  that  purity 
of  mind  of  which  human  nature  is,  of  itself,  incapable.  But 
it  is  from  the  mistakes  and  miscalculations  of  mankind,  to 
which  their  fallen  natures  are  continually  prone,  that  arises 


424 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


that  flood  of  misery  which  overwhelms  the  whole  race,  and 
resounds  wherever  the  footsteps  of  man  have  penetrated.  It 
is  the  lamentable  error  of  placing  happiness  in  vicious  indul- 
gences, or  thinking  to  pursue  it  by  vicious  means.  It  is  the 
blind  folly  of  sacrificing  the  welfare  of  the  future  tc  the  oppor- 
tunity of  immediate  guilty  gratification  which  destroys  the 
harmony  of  society,  and  poisons  the  peace  net  only  of  the 
immediate  procreators  of  the  errors,  not  only  of  the  identical 
actors  of  the  vices  themselves,  but  of  all  those  of  their  fellows 
who  fall  within  the  reach  of  their  influence  or  example,  or  who 
are  in  any  wise  connected  with  them  by  the  ties  of  blood. 

I  would  therefore  exhort  you  earnestly — you  who  are  yet 
unskilled  in  the  ways  of  the  world — to  beware  on  what  object 
you  concentre  your  hopes.    Pleasures  may  allure,  pride  or 
ambition  may  stimulate,  but  their  fruits  are  hollow  and  deceit- 
ful, and  they  afford  no  sure,  no  solid  satisfaction.    You  are 
placed  on  the  earth  in  a  state  of  probation ;  your  continuance 
here  will  be,  at  the  longest,  a  very  short  period,  and  when  you 
are  called  from  hence  you  plunge  into  an  eternity,  the  com- 
pletion of  which  will  be  in  correspondence  to  your  past  life, 
unutterably  happy  or  inconceivably  miserable.    Your  fate  will 
probably  depend  on  your  early  pursuits — it  will  be  these  which 
will  give  the  turn  to  your  character  and  to  your  pleasures.  I 
beseech  you,  therefore,  with  a  meek  and  lowly  spirit,  to  read 
the  pages  of  that  book,  which  the  wisest  and  best  of  men  have 
acknowledged  to  be  the  word  of  God.    You  will  there  find  a 
rule  of  moral  conduct,  such  as  the  world  never  had  any  idea  of 
before  its  divulgation.    If  you  covet  earthly  happiness,  it  is 
only  to  be  found  in  the  path  you  will  find  there  laid  down,  and 
I  can  confidently  promise  you,  in  a  life  of  simplicity  and  purity, 
a  life  passed  in  accordance  with  the  divine  word,  such  substan- 
tial bliss,  such  unruffled  peace,  as  is  no  where  else  to  be  found. 
All  other  schemes  of  earthly  pleasure  are  fleeting  and  unsatis- 
factory.   They  all  entail  upon  them  repentance  and  bitterness 
of  thought.   This  alone  endureth  for  ever — this  alone  embraces 
equally  the  present  and  the  future—  this  alone  can  arm  a  man 
acrainst  every  calamity — can  alone  shed  the  balm  of  peace  over 
that  scene  of  life  when  pleasures  have  lost  their  zest,  and  the 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


425 


wind  can  no  longer  look  forward  to  the  dark  and  mysterious 
future.  Above  all,  beware  of  the  ignis  fatuus  of  false  philo- 
sophy :  that  must  be  a  very  defective  system  of  ethics  which 
will  not  bear  a  man  through  the  most  trying  stage  of  his 
existence,  and  I  know  of  none  that  will  do  it  but  the  Christian. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. — No.  VIII. 

"0(ttiq  Xoyo^c  yap  irapaKaraSriKrjv  ljq  Xatwv 
9E%eT  ttsv,  adacoQ  ivriv,  rj  aKQarriQ  dyav. 

 icjiog  8e  y  hfjiv  afityorepoi  kciicoi. 

Anaxandrides  apud  Suidam. 

Much  has  been  said  of  late  on  the  subject  of  inscriptive  writ- 
ing, and  that,  in  my  opinion,  to  very  little  purpose.  Dr. 
Drake,  when  treating  on  this  topic  is,  for  once,  inconclusive ; 
but  his  essay  does  credit  to  his  discernment,  however  little  it 
may  honour  him  as  a  promulgator  of  the  laws  of  criticism  :  the 
exquisite  specimens  it  contains  prove  that  the  doctor  has  a 
feeling  of  propriety  and  general  excellence,  although  he  may  be 
unhappy  in  defining  them.  Boileau  says,  briefly,  "  Les  inscrip- 
tions doivent  etre  simples,  courtes,  et  familieres."  We 
have,  however,  many  examples  of  this  kind  of  writing  in  our 
language,  which,  although  they  possess  none  of  these  qualities* 
are  esteemed  excellent.  Akenside's  classic  imitations  are  not 
at  all  simple,  nothing  short,  and  the  very  reverse  of familiar  ^ 
yet  who  can  deny  that  they  are  beautiful,  and  in  some  instances 
appropriate  ?  Southey's  inscriptions  are  noble  pieces  ;— for 
the  opposite  qualities  of  tenderness  and  dignity,  sweetness  of 
imagery  and  terseness  of  moral,  unrivalled ;  they  are  perhaps 
wanting  in  propriety,  and  (which  is  the  criterion)  produce  a 
much  better  effect  in  a  book  than  they  would  on  a  column  or 
a  cenotaph.  There  is  a  certain  chaste  and  majestic  gravity 
expected  from  the  voice  of  tombs  and  monuments,  which  pro- 
bably would  displease  in  epitaphs  never  intended  to  be  engraved, 
and  inscriptions  for  obelisks  which  never  existed. 


426 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


When  a  man  visits  the  tomb  of  an  illustrious  character,  a 
spot  remarkable  for  some  memorable  deed,  or  a  scene  connected 
by  its  natural  sublimity  with  the  higher  feelings  of  the  breast, 
he  is  in  a  mood  only  for  the  nervous,  the  concise,  and  the 
impressive;  and  he  will  turn  with  disgust  alike  from  the 
puerile  conceits  of  the  epigrammatist  and  the  tedious  prolixity 
of  the  herald.  It  is  a  nice  thing  to  address  the  mind  in  the 
workings  of  generous  enthusiasm.  As  words  are  not  capable 
of  exciting  such  an  effervescence  of  the  sublimer  affections,  so 
they  can  do  little  towards  increasing  it.  Their  office  is  rather 
to  point  these  feelings  to  a  beneficial  purpose,  and  by  some 
noble  sentiment,  or  exalted  moral,  to  impart  to  the  mind  that 
pleasure  which  results  from  warm  emotions  when  connected 
with  the  virtuous  and  the  generous. 

In  the  composition  of  inscriptive  pieces,  great  attention 
must  be  paid  to  local  and  topical  propriety.  The  occasion 
and  the  place  must  not  only  regulate  the  tenour,  but  even  the 
style  of  an  inscription :  for  what,  in  one  case,  would  h  i  proper 
and  agreeable,  in  another  would  be  impertinent  and  disgusting. 
But  these  rules  may  always  be  taken  for  granted,  that  an 
inscription  should  be  unaffected  and  free  from  conceits ;  that 
no  sentiment  should  be  introduced  of  a  trite  or  hacknied 
nature ;  and  that  the  design  and  the  moral  to  be  inculcated 
should  be  of  sufficient  importance  to  merit  the  reader's  atten- 
tion, and  insure  his  regard.  Who  would  think  of  setting  a 
stone  up  in  the  wilderness  to  tell  the  traveller  what  he  knew 
before,  or  what,  when  he  had  learnt  for  the  first  time,  was  not 
worth  the  knowing  ?  It  would  be  equally  absurd  to  call  aside 
his  attention  to  a  simile  or  an  epigrammatic  point.  Yfit  on  a 
monument  is  like  a  jest  from  a  judge,  or  a  philosopher  cutting 
capers.  It  is  a  severe  mortification  to  meet  with  flippancy 
where  we  looked  for  solemnity,  and  meretricious  elegance 
where  the  occasion  led  us  to  expect  the  unadorned  majesty  of 
truth. 

That  branch  of  inscriptive  writing  which  commemorates  the 
virtues  of  departed  worth,  or  points  out  the  ashes  of  men  who 
yet  live  in  the  admiration  of  their  posterity  is,  of  all  others, 
the  most  interesting,  and,  if  properly  managed,  the  most 
useful. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


427 


It  is  not  enough  to  proclaim  to  the  observer  that  he  is 
drawing  near  to  the  reliques  of  the  deceased  genius, — the  occa- 
sion seems  to  provoke  a  few  reflections.  If  these  be  natural, 
they  will  be  in  unison  with  the  feelings  of  the  reader,  and,  if 
they  tend  where  they  ought  to  tend,  they  will  leave  him  better 
than  they  found  him.  But  these  reflections  must  not  be  too 
much  prolonged.  They  must  rather  be  hints  than  dissertations, 
it  is  sufficient  to  start  the  idea,  and  the  imagination  of  the 
reader  will  pursue  the  train  to  much  more  advantage  than  the 
writer  could  do  by  words. 

Panegyric  is  seldom  judicious  in  the  epitaphs  on  public 
characters ;  for  if  it  be  deserved  it  cannot  need  publication, 
and  if  it  be  exaggerated  it  will  only  serve  to  excite  ridicule. 
When  employed  in  memorizing  the  retired  virtues  of  domestic 
life,  and  qualities  which,  though  they  only  served  to  cheer  the 
little  circle  of  privacy,  still  deserved,  from  their  unirequency, 
to  triumph,  at  least  for  a  while,  over  the  power  of  the  grave, 
it  may  be  interesting  and  salutary  in  its  effects.  To  this 
purpose,  however,  it  is  rarely  employed.  An  epitaph-book  will 
seldom  supply  the  exigencies  of  character ;  and  men  of  talents 
are  not  always,  even  in  these  favoured  times,  at  hand  to  eter- 
nize the  virtues  of  private  life. 

The  following  epitaph,  by  Mr.  Hayley,  is  inscribed  on  a 
monument  to  the  memory  of  Cowper,  in  the  church  of  JEast 
Dereham : 

u  Ye,  who  with  warmth  the  public  triumph  feel 
Of  talents  dignified  by  sacred  zeal ; 
Here  to  devotion's  bard  devoutly  just, 
Pay  your  fond  tribute  due  to  Cowper's  dust 
England,  exulting  in  his  spotless  fame, 
Ranks  with  her  dearest  sons  his  fav'rite  name: 
Sense,  Fancy,  Wit,  conspire  not  all  to  raise 
So  clear  a  title  to  affection's  praise; 
His  highest  honours  to  the  heart  belong; 
His  virtues  formed  the  magic  of  his  song." 

"  This  epitaph,"  says  a  periodical  critic,*  "  is  simply  elegant 
and  appropriately  just."    I  regard  this  sentence  as  peculiarly 


•  The  "  Monthly  Reviewer." 


428 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


unfortunate,  for  the  epitaph  seems  to  me  to  be  elegant  without 
simplicity  d^dijust  without  propriety.  No  one  will  deny  that 
it  is  correctly  written,  and  that  it  is  not  destitute  of  grace ;  but 
in  what  consists  its  simplicity  I  am  at  a  loss  to  imagine. 
The  initial  address  is  laboured  and  circumlocutory.  There 
is  something  artificial  rather  than  otherwise  in  the  personi- 
fication of  England,  and  her  ranking  the  poet's  name  "  with 
her  dearest  sons,"  instead  of  with  those  of  her  dearest  sons, 
is  like  ranking  poor  John  Doe  with  a  proper  bona  fide  son  of 
Adam,  in  a  writ  of  arrest.  Sense,  fancy,  and  wit,  "  raising  a 
title,"  and  that  to  "  affection's  praise,"  is  not  very  simple,  and 
not  over  intelligible.  Again  the  epitaph  is  just  because  it  is 
strictly  true ;  but  it  is  by  no  means,  therefore,  appropriate. 
Who  that  would  turn  aside  to  visit  the  ashes  of  Cowper,  would 
need  to  be  told  that  England  ranks  him  with  her  favourite 
sons,  and  that  sense,  fancy,  and  wit  were  not  his  greatest 
honours,  for  that  his  virtues  formed  the  magic  of  his  song:  or 
who,  hearing  this,  would  be  the  better  for  the  information  ? 
Had  Mr.  Hayley  been  employed  in  the  monumental  praises 
of  a  private  man,  this  might  have  been  excusable,  but  speak- 
ing of  such  a  man  as  Cowper  it  is  idle.  This  epitaph  is  not 
appropriate,  therefore,  and  we  have  shown  that  it  is  not 
remarkable  for  simplicity.  Perhaps  the  respectable  critics 
themselves  may  not  feel  inclined  to  dispute  this  point  very 
tenaciously.  Epithets  are  very  convenient  little  things  for 
rounding  off  a  period ;  and  it  will  not  be  the  first  time  that 
truth  has  been  sacrificed  to  verbosity  and  antithesis. 

To  measure  lances  with  Hayley  may  be  esteemed  presump- 
tuous ;  bat  probably  the  following,  although  much  inferior  as 
a  composition,  would  have  had  more  effect  than  his  polished 
and  harmonious  lines  : — 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  MONUMENT  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
COWPER. 

Reader  !  if  with  no  vulgai  sympathy 
Thou  view'st  the  wreck  of  genius  and  of  worth, 
Stay  thou  thy  footsteps  near  this  hallowed  spot. 
Here  Cowper  rests.    Although  renown  have  made 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


His  name  familiar  to  thine  ear,  this  stone 

May  tell  thee  that  his  virtues  were  above 

The  common  portion . — that  the  voice,  now  hush'd 

In  death,  was  once  serenely  querulous 

With  pity's  tones,  and  in  the  ear  of  woe 

Spake  music.    Now  forgetful  at  thy  feet 

His  tired  head  presses  on  its  last  long  rest, 

Still  tenant  of  the  tomb ; — and  on  the  cheek 

Once  warm  with  animation's  lambent  flush, 

Sits  the  pale  image  of  unmark'd  decay. 

Yet  mourn  not.    He  had  chosen  the  better  part; 

And  these  sad  garments  of  mortality 

Put  off,  we  trust,  that  to  a  happier  land 

He  went  a  light  and  gladsome  passenger. 

Sigh'st  thou  for  honours,  reader  ?    Call  to  mind 

That  glory's  voice  is  impotent  to  pierce 

The  silence  of  the  tomb  !  but  virtue  blooms 

Even  on  the  wrecks  of  life,  and  mounts  the  skies ! 

So  gird  thy  loins  with  lowliness,  and  walk 

With  Cowper  on  the  pilgrimage  of  Christ. 

This  inscription  is  faulty  from  its  length,  but  if  a  painter 
cannot  get  the  requisite  effect  at  one  stroke,  he  must  do  it  by 
many.  The  laconic  style  of  epitaphs  is  the  most  difficult  to 
be  managed  of  any,  inasmuch  as  most  is  expected  from  it.  A 
sentence  standing  alone  on  a  tomb  or  a  monument,  is  ex- 
pected to  contain  something  particularly  striking ;  and  when 
this  expectation  is  disappointed,  the  reader  feels  like  a  man 
who,  having  been  promised  an  excellent  joke,  is  treated  with 
a  stale  conceit  or  a  vapid  pun.  The  best  specimen  of  this 
kind,  which  I  am  acquainted  with,  is  that  on  a  French  general : 

"  Siste,  Viator;  Heroem  calcas  /" 
Stop  traveller ;  thou  treadest  on  a  haro  ' 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. — No.  IX. 
"  Scires  e  sanguine  natos." 

Ovid. 

It  is  common  for  busy  and  active  men  to  behold  the  occupa- 
tions of  the  retired  and  contemplative  person  with  contempt. 
They  consider  his  speculations  as  idle  and  unproductive  :  as 
they  participate  in  none  of  his  feelings,  they  are  strangers  to 
his  motives,  his  views,  and  his  delights :  they  behold  him 
elaborately  employed  on  what  they  conceive  forwards  none  of 
the  interests  of  life,  contributes  to  none  of  its  gratifications, 
removes  none  of  its  inconveniences  :  they  conclude,  therefore, 
that  he  is  led  away  by  the  delusions  of  futile  philosophy,  that 
he  labours  for  no  good,  and  lives  to  no  end.  Of  the  various 
frames  of  mind  which  they  observe  in  him,  no  one  seems  to 
predominate  more,  and  none  appears  to  them  more  absurd 
than  sadness,  which  seems,  in  some  degree,  to  pervade  all  his 
views,  and  shed  a  solemn  tinge  over  all  his  thoughts.  Sad- 
ness, arising  from  no  personal  grief,  and  connected  with  no 
individual  concern,  they  regard  as  moon-struck  melancholy, 
the  effect  of  a  mind  overcast  with  constitutional  gloom,  and 
diseased  with  habits  of  vain  and  fanciful  speculation.  "  We 
can  share  with  the  sorrows  of  the  unfortunate,"  say  they, 
"  but  this  monastic  spleen  merits  only  our  derision :  it  tends 
to  no  beneficial  purpose,  it  benefits  neither  its  possessor  nor 
society."  Those  who  have  thought  a  little  more  on  this 
subject  than  the  gay  and  busy  crowd  will  draw  conclusions 
of  a  different  nature.  That  there  is  a  sadness,  springing  from 
the  noblest  and  purest  sources,  a  sadness  friendly  to  the 
human  heart,  and,  by  direct  consequence,  to  human  nature  in 
general,  is  a  truth  which  a  little  illustration  will  render 
tolerably  clear,  and  which,  when  understood  in  its  full  force, 
may  probably  convert  contempt  and  ridicule  into  respect. 

I  set  out  then  with  the  proposition,  that  the  man  who 
thinks  deeply,  especially  if  his  reading  be  extensive,  will, 
unless  his  heart  be  very  cold  and  very  light,  become  habituated 
to  a  pensive,  or,  with  more  propriety,  a  mournful  cast  of 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


431 


thought.  This  will  arise  from  two  more  particular  sources — 
from  the  view  of  human  nature  in  general,  as  demonstrated 
by  the  experience  both  of  past  and  present  times,  and  from 
the  contemplation  of  individual  instances  of  human  depravity 
and  of  human  suffering.  The  first  of  these  is,  indeed,  the 
last  in  the  order  of  time,  for  his  general  views  of  humanity  are 
in  a  manner  consequential,  or  resulting  from  the  special,  but 
I  have  inverted  that  order  for  the  sake  of  perspicuity. 

Of  those  who  have  occasionally  thought  on  these  subjects, 
I  may,  with  perfect  assurance  of  their  reply,  inquire  what 
have  been  their  sensations  when  they  have,  for  a  moment, 
attained  a  more  enlarged  and  capacious  notion  of  the  state  of 
man  in  all  its  bearings  and  dependencies  ?  They  have  iound, 
and  the  profoundest  philosophers  have  done  no  more,  that, 
they  are  enveloped  in  mystery,  and  that  the  mystery  of  man's 
situation  is  not  without  alarming  and  fearful  circumstances. 
They  have  discovered  that  all  they  know  of  themselves  is  that 
they  live,  but  that  from  whence  they  came,  or  whither  they  are 
going,  is  by  Nature  altogether  hidden;  that  impenetrable 
gloom  surrounds  them  on  every  side,  and  that  they  even  hold 
their  morrow  on  the  credit  of  to-day,  when  it  is,  in  fact, 
buried  in  the  vague  and  indistinct  gulf  of  the  ages  to  come  ! 
These  are  reflections  deeply  interesting,  and  lead  to  others  so 
awful,  that  many  gladly  shut  their  eyes  on  the  giddy  and 
unfathomable  depths  which  seem  to  stretch  before  them.  The 
meditative  man,  however,  endeavours  to  pursue  them  to  the 
farthest  stretch  of  the  reasoning  powers,  and  to  enlarge  his 
conceptions  of  the  mysteries  of  his  own  existence,  and  the 
more  he  learns,  and  the  deeper  he  penetrates,  the  more  cause 
does  he  find  for  being  serious,  and  the  more  inducements  to 
be  continually  thoughtful. 

If,  again,  we  turn  from  the  condition  of  mortal  existence, 
considered  in  the  abstract,  to  the  qualities  and  characters  of 
man,  and  his  condition  in  a  state  of  society,  we  see  things 
perhaps  equally  strange  and  infinitely  more  affecting.  In  the 
economy  of  creation,  we  perceive  nothing  inconsistent 
with  the  power  of  an  all-wise  and  all-merciful  God.  A 
perfect  harmony  runs  through  all  the  parts  of  the  universe. 


432 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


Plato's  syrens  sing  not  only  from  the  planetary  octave,  but 
through  all  the  minutest  divisions  of  the  stupendous  whole : 
order,  beauty,  and  perfection,  the  traces  of  the  great  architect, 
glow  through  every  particle  of  his  work.  At  man,  however, 
we  stop :  there  is  one  exception.  The  harmony  of  order 
ceases,  and  vice  and  misery  disturb  the  beautiful  consistency 
of  creation,  and  bring  us  first  acquainted  with  positive  evil. 
We  behold  men  carried  irresistibly  away  by  corrupt  principles 
and  vicious  inclinations,  indulging  in  propensities,  destructive 
as  well  to  themselves  as  to  those  around  them ;  the  stronger 
oppressing  the  weaker,  and  the  bad  persecuting  the  good ! 
we  see  the  depraved  in  prosperity,  the  virtuous  in  adversity, 
the  guilty  unpunished,  the  undeserving  overwhelmed  with 
unprovoked  misfortunes.  Erom  hence  we  are  tempted  to 
think,  that  He,  whose  arm  holds  the  planets  in  their  course, 
and  directs  the  comets  along  their  eccentric  orbits,  ceases 
to  exercise  his  providence  over  the  affairs  of  mankind,  and 
leaves  them  to  be  governed  and  directed  by  the  impulses  of 
a  corrupt  heart,  or  the  blind  workings  of  chance  alone.  Yet 
this  is  inconsistent  both  with  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  the 
Deity.  If  God  permit  evil,  he  causes  it :  the  difference  is 
casuistical.  We  are  led,  therefore,  to  conclude,  that  it  was 
not  always  thus  :  that  man  was  created  in  a  far  different  and 
far  happier  condition ;  but  that,  by  some  means  or  other,  he 
has  forfeited  the  protection  of  his  Maker.  Here  then  is  a 
mystery.  The  ancients,  led  by  reasonings  alone,  perceived  it 
with  amazement,  but  did  not  solve  the  problem.  They 
attempted  some  explanation  of  it  by  the  lame  fiction  of  a 
golden  age  and  its  cession,  where,  by  a  circular  mode  of 
reasoning,  they  attribute  the  introduction  of  vice  to  their 
gods  having  deserted  the  earth,  and  the  desertion  of  the 
gods  to  the  introduction  of  vice.*    This,  however,  was  the 


Kai  tots  dr)  irpog  oXvfiirov  diro  x®0V0Q  *vpv8tir]Q, 
Asvkoktlv  (papezaci  KakvtyapLtvu)  X9oa  koKov, 
AQavariov  fiera  <f>vkov  irov,  TrpoXnrovr'  avOpwirovg 
AiSo)Q  icai  'StfxsaiQ'  tcl  de  \ti\lserai  aXyea  \i>ypa 
iivrirotg  avQpwiroiGi,  kclkqv  8'  ovk  kcratrai  oXky). 

Hesiod.  Opera  et  Dies,  lib.  i.,  1.  195: 


HENRY  KIKKE  WHITE. 


433 


logic  of  the  poets ;  the  philosophers  disregarded  the  fable, 
but  did  not  dispute  the  fact  it  was  intended  to  account  for. 
They  often  hint  at  human  degeneracy,  and  some  unknown 
curse  hanging  over  our  being,  and  even  coming  into  the 
world  along  with  us.  Pliny,  in  the  preface  to  his  seventh 
book,  has  this  remarkable  passage:  "The  animal  about  to 
rule  over  the  rest  of  created  animals,  lies  weeping,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  making  his  first  entrance  upon  life  with  sharp 
pangs,  and  this,  for  no  other  crime  than  that  he  is  born 
man."  Cicero,  in  a  passage,  for  the  preservation  of  which 
we  are  indebted  to  St.  Augustine,  gives  a  yet  stronger  idea  of 
an  existing  degeneracy  in  human  nature :  "  Man,"  says  he, 
u  comes  into  existence,  not  as  from  the  hands  of  a  mother, 
but  of  a  step-dame  nature,  with  a  body  feeble,  naked,  and 
fragile,  and  a  mind  exposed  to  anxiety  and  care,  abject  in 
fear,  unmeet  for  labour,  prone  to  licentiousness,  in  which, 
however,  there  still  dwell  some  sparks  of  the  divine  mind, 
though  obscured,  and,  as  it  were,  in  ruins."  And,  in  another 
place,  he  intimates  it  as  a  current  opinion,  that  man  comes 
into  the  world  as  into  a  state  of  punishment  expiatory  of 
crimes  committed  in  some  previous  stage  of  existence,  of 
which  we  now  retain  no  recollection. 

Prom,  these  proofs,  and  from  daily  observations  and 
experience,  there  every  ground  for  concluding  that  man 
is  in  a  state  of  misery  and  depravity  quite  inconsistent  with 
the  happiness  for  which,  by  a  benevolent  God,  he  must  have 
been  created.  We  see  glaring  marks  of  this  in  our  own 
times.  Prejudice  alone  blinds  us  to  the  absurdity  and  the 
horror  of  those  systematic  murders  which  go  by  the  name  of 
wars,  where  man  falls  on  man,  brother  slaughters  brother, 
where  death,  in  every  variety  of  horror,  preys  "  on  the  finely 


"  Victa  jacet  Pietas:  et  Virgo  ccede  madentes, 
Ultima  coelestuui  terras  Astrsea  reliquit." 

Ovid.  Metamor.,  1.  i.,  fab.  4. 

"Pauiatim  deinde  ad  Superos  Astrsea  recessit, 
Hac  comite  atque  duse  pariter  fugere  sorores." 

JuveiwK  sat.  vi.%  1.  19 

If  F 


434 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  O*' 


fibred  human  frame"  and  where  tlie  cry  of  the  widow  and 
the  orphan  rise  up  to  heaven  long  after  the  thunder  of  the 
fight  and  the  clang  of  arms  have  ceased,  and  the  bones  of 
sons,  brothers,  and  husbands  slain  are  grown  wThite  on  the 
field.  Customs  like  these  vouch,  with  most  miraculous  organs, 
for  the  depravity  of  the  human  heart,  and  these  are  not  the 
most  mournful  of  those  considerations  which  present  them- 
selves to  the  mind  of  the  thinking  man. 

Private  life  is  equally  fertile  in  calamitous  perversion  of 
reason  and  extreme  accumulation  of  misery.  On  the  one 
hand,  we  see  a  large  proportion  of  men  sedulously  employed 
in  the  eduction  of  their  own  ruin,  pursuing  vice  in  all  its 
varieties,  and  sacrificing  the  peace  and  happiness  of  the 
innocent  and  unoffending  to  their  own  brutal  gratifications ; 
and  on  the  other,  pain,  misfortune,  and  misery,  overwhelming 
alike  the  good  and  the  bad,  the  provident  and  the  im- 
provident. But  too  general  a  view  would  distract  our 
attention :  let  the  reader  pardon  me  if  I  suddenly  draw  him 
away  from  the  survey  of  the  crowds  of  life  to  a  few  detached 
scenes.  We  will  select  a  single  picture  at  random.  The 
character  is  common. 

Behold  that  beautiful  female  who  is  rallying  a  well-dressed 
young  man  with  so  much  gaiety  and  humour.  Did  you  ever 
see  so  lovely  a  countenance?  There  is  an  expression  of 
vivacity  in  her  fine  dark  eye  which  quite  captivates  one ;  and 
her  smile,  were  it  a  little  less  bold,  would  be  bewitching. 
How  gay  and  careless  she  seems  !  One  would  suppose  she 
had  a  very  light  and  happy  heart.  Alas !  how  appearances 
deceive !  This  gaiety  is  all  feigned.  It  is  her  business  to 
please,  and  beneath  a  fair  and  painted  outside  she  conceals  an 
inquiet  and  forlorn  breast.  When  she  was  yet  very  young, 
an  engaging  but  dissolute  young  man  took  advantage  of  her 
simplicity,  and  of  the  affection  with  which  he  had  inspired 
her.  to  betray  her  virtue.  At  first  her  infamy  cost  her  many 
tears  ;  but  habit  wore  away  this  remorse,  leaving  only  a  kind 
of  indistinct  regret,  and,  as  she  fondly  loved  her  betrayer,  she 
experienced,  at  times,  a  mingled  pleasure  even  in  this  aban- 
doned situation.  But  this  was  soon  over.  Her  lover,  on 
pretence  of  a  journey  into  the  country,  left  her  for  ever.  She 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


435 


soon  afterwards  heard  of  his  marriage,  with  an  agony  of  grief 
which  few  can  adequately  conceive,  and  none  describe.  The 
calls  of  want,  however,  soon  subdued  the  more  distracting 
ebullitions  of  anguish.  She  had  no  choice  left ;  all  the  gates 
of  virtue  were  shut  upon  her,  and  though  she  really  abhorred 
the  course,  she  was  obliged  to  betake  herself  to  vice  for 
support.  Her  next  keeper  possessed  her  person  without  her 
heart.  She  has  since  passed  through  several  hands,  and  has 
found,  by  bitter  experience,  that  the  vicious,  on  whose  gene- 
rosity she  is  thrown,  are  devoid  of  all  feeling  but  that  of 
•self -gratification,  and  that  even  the  wages  of  prostitution  are 
reluctantly  and  grudgingly  paid.  She  now  looks  on  all  men 
as  sharpers.  She  smiles  but  to  entangle  and  destixw,  an^ 
while  she  simulates  fondness,  is  intent  only  on  the  extorting 
of  that,  at  best  poor  pittance,  which  her  necessities  loudly 
demand.  Thoughtless  as  she  may  seem,  she  is  not  without 
an  idea  of  her  forlorn  and  wretched  situation,  and  she  looks 
only  to  sudden  death  as  her  refuge,  against  that  time  when 
her  charms  shall  cease  to  allure  the  eye  of  incontinence,  when 
even  the  lowest  haunts  of  infamy  shall  be  shut  against  her, 
and,  without  a  friend  or  a  hope,  she  must  sink  under  the 
pressure  of  want  and  disease. 

But  we  will  now  shift  the  scene  a  little,  and  select  another 
object.  Behold  yon  poor  weary  wretch,  who,  with  a  child  wrapt 
in  her  arms,  with  difficulty  drags  along  the  road.  The  man  with 
a  knapsack,  who  is  walking  before  her,  is  her  husband,  and  is 
marching  to  join  his  regiment.  He  has  been  spending,  at  9 
dram-shop,  in  the  town  they  have  just  left,  the  supply  whici 
the  pale  and  weak  appearance  of  his  wife  proclaims  was 
necessary  for  her  sustenance.  He  is  now  half  drunk,  and  is 
venting  the  artificial  spirits  which  intoxication  excites  in  the 
abuse  of  his  weary  help-mate  behind  him.  She  seems  to 
listen  to  his  reproaches  in  patient  silence.  Her  face  will  tell 
you  more  than  many  words,  as  with  a  wan  and  meaning  look 
she  surveys  the  little  wretch  who  is  asleep  on  her  arm.  The 
turbulent  brutality  of  the  man  excites  no  attention:  she  is 
pondering  on  the  future  chance  of  life,  and  the  probable  lot  of 
her  heedless  little  one. 

F  ?  2 


436 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


One  other  picture,  and  I  have  done.  The  man  pacing  with 
a  slow  step  and  languid  aspect  over  yon  prison  court,  was  once 
a  fine  dashing  fellow,  the  admiration  of  the  ladies  and  the 
envy  of  the  men.  He  is  the  only  representative  of  a  once 
respectable  family,  and  is  brought  to  this  situation  by  unlimited 
indulgence  at  that  time  when  the  check  is  most  necessary. 
He  began  to  figure  in  genteel  life  at  an  early  age.  His  mis- 
judging mother,  to  whose  sole  care  he  was  left,  thinking  no 
alliance  too  good  for  her  darling,  cheerfully  supplied  his  extra- 
vagance, under  the  idea  that  it  would  not  last  long,  and  that 
it  would  enable  him  to  shine  in  those  circles  where  she  wished 
him  to  rise.  But  he  soon  found  that  habits  of  prodigality 
once  well  gained  are  never  eradicated.  His  fortune,  though 
genteel,  was  not  adequate  to  such  habits  of  expense.  His 
unhappy  parent  lived  to  see  him  make  a  degrading  alliance, 
and  come  in  danger  of  a  jail,  and  then  died  of  a  broken  heart. 
His  affairs  soon  wound  themselves  up.  His  debts  were  enor- 
mous, and  he  had  nothing  to  pay  them  with.  He  has  now 
been  in  that  prison  for  many  years,  and  since  he  is  excluded 
from  the  benefit  of  an  insolvency  act,  he  has  made  up  his  mind 
to  the  idea  of  ending  his  days  there.  His  wife,  whose  beauty 
had  decoyed  him,  since  she  found  he  could  not  support  her, 
deserted  him  for  those  who  could,  leaving  him  without  friend 
or  companion,  to  pace,  with  measured  steps,  over  the  court  of 
a  country  jail,  and  endeavour  to  beguile  the  lassitude  oi  impri- 
sonment, by  thinking  on  the  days  that  are  gone,  or  counting 
the  squares  in  his  grated  window  in  every  possible  direction, 
backwards,  forwards,  and  across,  till  he  sighs  to  find  the  sum 
always  the  same,  and  that  the  more  anxiously  we  strive  to 
beguile  the  moments  in  their  course  the  more  sluggishly  they 
travel. 

H'  these  are  accurate  pictures  of  some  of  the  varieties  of 
human  suffering,  and  if  such  pictures  are  common  even  to 
triteness,  what  conclusions  must  we  draw  as  to  the  condition 
of  man  in  general,  and  what  must  be  the  prevailing  irame  of 
mind  of  him  who  meditates  much  on  these  subjects,  and  who, 
unbracing  the  whole  tissue  of  causes  and  effects,  sees  Misery 
invariably  the  offspring  of  Vice,  and  Vice  existing  in  hostility 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


437 


to  the  intentions  and  wishes  of  God  ?  Let  the  meditative  man 
tnrn  where  he  will  he  finds  traces  of  the  depraved  state  of 
Nature  and  her  consequent  misery.  History  presents  him 
with  little  but  murder,  treachery,  and  crime  of  every  descrip- 
tion. Biography  only  strengthens  the  view,  by  concentrating 
it.  The  philosophers  remind  him  of  the  existence  of  evil,  by 
their  lessons  how  to  avoid  or  endure  it ;  and  the  very  poets 
themselves  afford  him  pleasure,  not  unconnected  with  regret, 
as  either  by  contrast,  exemplification,  or  deduction,  they  bring 
the  world  and  its  circumstances  before  his  eyes. 

That  such  an  one  then  is  prone  to  sadness,  who  will  wonder  ? 
If  such  meditations  are  beneficial,  who  will  blame  them  ?  The 
discovery  of  evil  naturally  leads  us  to  contribute  our  mite 
towards  the  alleviation  of  the  wretchedness  it  introduces. 
While  we  lament  vice,  we  learn  to  shun  it  ourselves,  and  to 
endeavour,  if  possible,  to  arrest  its  progress  in  those  around 
us ;  and  in  the  course  of  these  high  and  lofty  speculations,  we 
are  insensibly  led  to  think  humbly  of  ourselves,  and  to  lift  up 
our  thoughts  to  him  who  is  alone  the  fountain  of  all  perfection 
and  the  source  of  all  goou. 

W. 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. — No.  X 

"  La  rime  est  une  esclave,  et  lie  doit  qu'obeir." 

Boileau-j  L'Art  Poetique. 

Experiments  in  versification  have  not  often  been  successful. 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,  with  all  his  genius,  great  it  undoubtedly 
was,  could  not  impart  grace  to  his  hexameters  or  fluency  to 
his  sapphics.  Spenser's  stanza  was  new,  but  his  verse  was 
familiar  to  the  ear;  and  though  his  rhymes  were  frequent  even 
to  satiety,  he  seems  to  have  avoided  the  awkwardness  of 
novelty,  and  the  difficulty  of  unpractised  metres.  Donne  had 
not  music  enough  to  render  his  broken  rhyming  couplets 
sufferable,  and  neither  his  wit  nor  his  pointed  satire  were  suffi- 
cient to  rescue  him  from  that  neglect  which  his  uncouth  and 
nigged  versification  speedily  superinduced. 


438 


PKOSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


Tn  our  times,  Mr.  Southey  has  given  grace  and  melody  to 
some  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  measures,  and  Mr.  Bowles  has 
written  rhyming  heroics,  wherein  the  sense  is  transmitted 
from  couplet  to  couplet,  and  the  pauses  are  varied  with  all  the 
freedom  of  blank  verse,  without  exciting  any  sensation  of  rug- 
gedness,  or  offending  the  nicest  ear.  But  these  are  minor 
efforts :  the  former  of  these  exquisite  poets  has  taken  a  yet 
wider  range,  and  in  his  "  Thalaba,  the  Destroyer,"  has  spurned 
at  all  the  received  laws  of  metre,  and  framed  a  fabric  of  verse 
altogether  his  own. 

An  innovation,  so  bold  as  that  of  Mr.  Southey,  was  sure  to 
meet  with  disapprobation  and  ridicule.  The  world  naturally 
looks  with  suspicion  on  systems  which  contradict  established 
principles,  and  refuse  to  quadrate  with  habits,  which,  as  they 
have  been  used  to,  men  are  apt  to  think  cannot  be  improved 
upon.  The  opposition  which  has  been  made  to  the  metre  of 
"Thalaba,"  is,  therefore,  not  so  much  to  be  imputed  to  its  want 
of  harmony  as  to  the  operation  of  existing  prejudices  :  and  it 
is  fair  to  conclude,  that,  as  these  prejudices  are  softened  by 
usages,  and  the  strangeness  of  novelty  wears  off,  the  peculiar 
features  of  this  lyrical  frame  of  verse  will  be  more  candidly 
appreciated,  and  its  merits  more  unreservedly  acknowledged. 

Whoever  is  conversant  with  the  writings  of  this  author, 
will  have  observed  and  admired  that  greatness  of  mind,  and 
comprehension  of  intellect,  by  which  he  is  enabled,  on  all  occa- 
sions, to  throw  off  the  shackles  of  habit  and  prepossession. 
Southey  never  treads  in  the  beaten  track;  liis  thoughts, 
while  they  are  those  of  nature,  carry  that  cast  of  originality 
which  is  the  stamp  and  testimony  of  genius.  He  views  things 
through  a  peculiar  phasis,  and  while  he  has  the  feelings  of  a 
man,  they  are  those  of  a  man  almost  abstracted  from  mortality, 
and  reflecting  on,  and  painting  the  scenes  of  life,  as  if  he  were 
a  mere  spectator,  uninfluenced  by  his  own  connexion  with  the 
objects  he  surveys.  To  this  faculty  of  bold  discrimination  I 
attribute  many  of  Mr.  Southey's  peculiarities  as  a  poet.  He 
never  seems  to  inquire  how  other  men  would  treat  a  subject, 
or  what  may  happen  to  be  the  usage  of  the  times  ;  but  filled 
with  that  strong  sense  of  fitness,  which  is  the  result  of  bold1 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


439 


and  unshackled  thought,  he  fearlessly  pursues  that  course 
which  his  own  sense  of  propriety  points  out. 

It  is  very  evident  to  me,  and,  I  should  conceive,  to  all  who 
consider  the  subject  attentively,  that  the  structure  of  verse, 
which  Mr.  Southey  has  promulgated  in  his  "  Thalaba,"  was 
neither  adopted  rashly,  nor  from  any  vain  emulation  of  origin- 
ality. As  the  poet  himself  happily  observes,  "  It  is  the  ara- 
besque ornament  of  an  Arabian  tale"  No  one  would  wish 
to  see  the  "Joan  of  Arc"  in  such  a  garb;  but  the  wild  freedom 
of  the  versification  of  "  Thalaba"  accords  well  with  the  romantic 
wildness  of  the  story ,  and  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say,  that,  had 
any  other  known  measure  been  adopted,  the  poem  would  have 
been  deprived  of  half  its  beauty  and  all  its  propriety.  In 
blank  verse  it  would  have  been  absurd ;  in  rhyme  insipid.  The 
lyrical  manner  is  admirably  adapted  to  the  sudden  transitions 
and  rapid  connexions  of  an  Arabian  tale,  while  its  variety 
precludes  tsedium,  and  its  full,  because  unshackled,  cadence 
satisfies  the  ear  with  legitimate  harmony.  At  first,  indeed, 
the  verse  may  appear  uncouth,  because  it  is  new  to  the  ear : 
but  I  defy  any  man  who  has  any  feeling  of  melody,  to  peruse 
the  whole  poem  without  paying  tribute  to  the  sweetness  of 
its  flow  and  the  gracefulness  of  its  modulations. 

In  judging  of  this  extraordinary  poem,  we  should  consider 
it  as  a  genuine  lyric  production, — we  should  conceive  it  as 
recited  to  the  harp,  in  times  when  such  relations  carried 
nothing  incredible  with  them.  Carrying  this  idea  along  with 
us,  the  admirable  art  of  the  poet  will  strike  us  with  tenfold 
conviction ;  the  abrupt  sublimity  of  his  transitions,  the  sublime 
simplicity  of  his  manner,  and  the  delicate  touches  by  which  he 
connects  the  various  parts  of  his  narrative,  will  then  be  more 
strongly  observable,  and  we  shall,  in  particular,  remark  the 
uncommon  felicity  with  which  he  has  adapted  his  versification, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  wildest  irregularity,  left  nothing  to 
shock  the  ear,  or  offend  the  judgment. 

W. 


440 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS.  —  No.  XI. 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 

Pew  histories  would  be  more  worthy  of  attention  than  that  of 
the  progress  of  knowledge,  from  its  first  dawn  to  the  time  of 
its  meridian  splendour,  among  the  ancient  Greeks.  Unfor- 
tunately, however,  the  precautions  which,  in  this  early  period, 
were  almost  generally  taken  to  confine  all  knowledge  to  a 
particular  branch  of  men ;  and  when  the  Greeks  began  to  con- 
tend for  the  palm  among  learned  nations,  their  backwardness 
to  acknowledge  the  sources  from  whence  they  derived  the 
first  principles  of  their  philosophy,  have  served  to  wrap  this 
interesting  subject  in  almost  impenetrable  obscurity.  Eew 
vestiges,  except  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  now  remain  of 
the  learning  of  the  more  ancient  world.  Of  the  two  millions 
of  verses  said  to  have  been  written  by  the  Chaldean  Zoroaster,* 
we  have  no  relics,  and  the  oracles  which  go  under  his  name 
are  pretty  generally  acknowledged  to  be  spurious. 

The  Greeks  unquestionably  derived  their  philosophy  from 
the  Egyptians  and  Chaldeans.  Both  Pythagoras  and  Plato 
had  visited  those  countries  for  the  advantage  of  learning ;  and 
if  we  may  credit  the  received  accounts  of  the  former  of  these 
illustrious  sages,  he  was  regularly  initiated  in  the  schools  of 
Egypt,  during  the  period  of  twenty-two  years  that  he  resided 
in  that  country,  and  became  the  envy  and  admiration  of  the 
Egyptians  themselves.  Of  the  Pythagorean  doctrines  we  have 
some  accounts  remaining,  and  nothing  is  wanting  to  render 
the  systems  of  Platonism  complete  and  intelligible.  In  the 
dogmas  of  these  philosophers,  therefore,  we  may  be  aoie  to 
trace  the  learning  of  these  primitive  nations,  though  our  con- 
clusions must  be  cautiously  drawn,  and  much  must  be  allowed 


*  Pliny. 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE, 


441 


to  the  active  intelligence  of  two  Greeks.  Ovid's  short  sum- 
mary of  the  philosophy  of  Pythagoras  deserves  attention: — 

 "Isque,  licet  cceli  regione  remotos 

Mente  Deos  adiit :  et,  quae  natura  negabat 
Visions  humanis,  oculis  ea  pectoris  hausit. 
Cumque  animo  et  vigili  perspexerat  omnia  cura; 
In  medium  discenda  dabat :  ccetnmque  silentuno 
Dictaque  mirantum,  magni  primordia  mundi 
Et  rerum  causas  et  quid  natura  docebat, 
Quid  Deus:  unde  nives :  qua?  fal minis  esset  origo 
Jupiter,  an  venti,  discussa  nube,  tonarent, 
Quid  quateret  terras :  qua  sidera  lege  mearent 
Et  quodcumque  latet." 

If  we  are  to  credit  this  account,  and  it  is  corroborated  by 
many  other  testimonies,  Pythagoras  searched  deeply  into 
natural  causes.  Some  have  imagined,  and  strongly  asserted, 
that  his  central  fire  was  figurative  of  the  sun,  and,  therefore, 
that  he  had  an  idea  of  its  real  situation ;  but  this  opinion,  so 
generally  adopted,  may  be  combated  with  some  degree  of 
reason.  I  should  be  inclined  to  think  Pythagoras  gained  his 
idea  of  the  great,  central,  vivifying,  and  creative  fire  from  the 
Chaldeans,  and  that,  therefore,  it  was  the  representative  not 
of  the  sun,  but  of  the  Deity.  Zoroaster  taught  that  there  was 
one  God,  Eternal,  the  Father  of  the  Universe :  he  assimilated 
the  Deity  to  light,  and  applied  to  him  the  names  of  Light, 
Beams,  and  Splendour.  The  Magi,  corrupting  this  represen- 
tation of  the  Supreme  Being,  and  taking  literally  what  was 
meant  as  an  allegory  or  symbol,  supposed  that  God  was  this 
central  fire,  the  source  of  heat,  light,  and  life,  residing  in  the 
centre  of  the  universe;  and  from  hence  they  introduced  among 
the  Chaldeans  the  worship  of  fire.  That  Pythagoras  was 
tainted  with  this  superstition  is  well  known.  On  the  testi- 
mony of  Plutarch,  his  disciples  held,  that  in  the  midst  of  the 
world  is  fire,  or  in  the  midst  of  the  four  elements  is  the  fiery 
globe  of  Unity,  or  Monad — the  procreative,  nutritive,  and 
excitative  power.  The  sacred  fire  of  Yesta,  among  the  GreekB 
and  Latins,  was  a  remain  of  this  doctrine. 


442 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


As  the  limits  of  this  paper  will  not  allow  me  to  take  in  all 
the  branches  of  this  snbject,  I  shall  confine  my  attention  to 
the  opinions  held  by  these  early  nations  of  the  natnre  of  the 
Godhead. 

Amidst  the  corruptions  introduced  by  the  Magi,  we  may 
discern,  with  tolerable  certainty,  that  Zoroaster  taught  the 
worship  of  the  one  true  God:  and  Thales,  Pythagoras,  and 
Plato,  who  had  all  been  instituted  in  the  mysteries  of  the 
Chaldeans,  taught  the  same  doctrine.  These  philosophers  like- 
wise asserted  the  omnipotence  and  eternity  of  God ;  and  that 
he  was  the  creator  of  all  things,  and  the  governor  of  the 
universe.  Plato  decisively  supported  the  doctrines  of  future 
rewards  and  punishments ;  and  Pythagoras,  struck  with  the 
idea  of  the  omnipresence  of  the  Deity,  defined  him  as  animus 
<per  ujiiversas  mundi  partes  omnemque  naturam  commeans 
atque  diffusus,  ex  quo  omnia  quce  nascuntur  animalia  vitam 
capiunt* — an  intelligence  moving  upon,  and  diffused  over  all 
the  parts  of  the  universe  and  all  nature,  from  which  all  animals 
derive  their  existence.  As  for  the  swarm  of  gods  worshipped 
both  in  Egypt  and  Greece,  it  is  evident  they  were  only 
esteemed  as  inferior  deities.  In  the  time  of  St.  Paul,  there 
was  a  temple  at  Athens  inscribed  to  the  unknown  God :  and 
Hesiod  makes  them  younger  than  the  earth  and  heaven. 

E£  apxVQ  ovg  Taia  jccu  Ovpctvog  evpvg  stiktov 
0/     £/c  tiov  syevovTo  [3eoi  dcoTrjpsg  eawv. 

Theog. 

If  Pythagoras  and  the  other  philosophers  who  succeeded 
him  paid  honour  to  these  gods,  they  either  did  it  through 
fear  of  encountering  ancient  prejudices,  or  they  reconciled  it 
by  recurring  to  the  Dsemonology  of  their  masters,  the  Chal- 
deans, who  maintained  the  agency  of  good  and  bad  daemons, 
who  presided  over  different  things,  and  were  distinguished 
into  the  powers  of  light  and  darkness,  heat  and  cold.   It  is 

*  Lactantius  Div.  Inst.  lib.  cap.  5,  etiam,  Minucius  Felix. 
"  Pythagorse  Deus  est  animus  per  universam  rerum  naturam  com- 
means atque  intentus  ex  quo  etiam  animalium  omnium  vita  capiatur/ 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


443 


remarkable,  too,  that  amongst  all  these  people,  whether 
Egyptians  or  Chaldeans,  Greeks  or  Romans,  as  well  as  every 
other  nation  under  the  snn,  sacrifices  were  made  to  the  gods, 
in  order  to  render  them  propitious  to  their  wishes,  or  to 
expiate  their  offences — a  fact  which  proves  that  the  con- 
viction of  the  interference  of  the  Deity  in  human  affairs  is 
universal :  and  what  is  much  more  important,  that  this  custom 
is  primitive,  and  derived  from  the  first  inhabitants  of  the  world. 
*         *         *  * 


MELANCHOLY  HOURS. — No.  XII. 

While  the  seat  of  empire  was  yet  at  Byzantium,  and  that 
city  was  the  centre,  not  only  of  dominion,  but  of  learning  and 
politeness,  a  certain  hermit  had  fixed  his  residence  in  a 
cell,  on  the  banks  of  the  Athyras,  at  the  distance  of  about 
ten  miles  from  the  capital.  The  spot  was  retired,  although 
so  near  the  great  city,  and'  was  protected,  as  well  by  woods 
and  precipices,  as  by  the  awful  reverence  with  which,  at  that 
time,  all  ranks  beheld  the  character  of  a  recluse.  Indeed  the 
poor  old  man,  who  tenanted  the  little  hollow,  at  the  summit 
of  a  crag,  beneath  which  the  Athyras  rolls  its  impetuous 
torrent,  was  not  famed  for  the  severity  of  his  penances  or  the 
strictness  of  his  mortifications.  That  he  was  either  studious 
or  protracted  his  devotions  to  a  late  hour,  was  evident/ for 
his  lamp  was  often  seen  to  stream  through  the  trees  which 
shaded  his  dwelling,  when  accident  called  any  of  the  peasants- 
from  their  beds  at  unseasonable  hours.  Be  this  as  it  may,  no 
miracles  were  imputed  to  Lun ;  the  sick  rarely  came  to 
petition  for  the  benefit  of  his  prayers,  and,  though  some  both 
loved  him  and  had  good  reason  for  loving  him,  yet  many 
undervalued  him  for  the  want  of  that  very  austerity  which 
the  old  man  seemed  most  desirous  to  avoid. 

It  was  evening,  and  the  long  shadows  of  the  Thracian 
mountains  were  extending  still  farther  and  farther  along  tha 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


plains,  when  this  old  man  was  disturbed  in  his  meditations  by 
the  approach  of  a  stranger.  "  How  far  is  it  to  Byzantium  ?" 
was  the  question  put  by  the  traveller  ?  "  Not  far  to  those  who 
know  the  country,"  replied  the  hermit,  "  but  a  stranger  would 
not  easily  find  his  way  through  the  windings  of  these  woods 
and  the  intricacies  of  the  plains  beyond  them.  Do  you  see 
that  blue  mist  which  stretches  along  the  bounding  line  of  the 
horizon  as  far  as  the  trees  will  permit  the  eye  to  trace  it  ? 
That  is  the  Propontis  ;  and  higher  up  on  the  left,  the  city  of 
Constantinople  rears  its  proud  head  above  the  waters.  But 
I  would  dissuade  thee,  stranger,  from  pursuing  thy  journey 
farther  to-night.  Thou  mayst  rest  in  the  village,  which  is 
half-way  down  the  hill ;  or  if  thou  wilt  share  my  supper  of 
roots,  and  put  up  with  a  bed  of  leaves,  my  cell  is  open  to 
thee."  "I  thank  thee,  father,"  replied  the  youth,  "I  am 
weary  with  my  journey,  and  will  accept  thy  proffered  hospi- 
tality." They  ascended  the  rock  together.  The  hermit's 
cell  was  the  work  of  nature.  It  penetrated  far  into  the  rock, 
and  in  the  innermost  recess  was  a  little  chapel,  furnished  with 
a  crucifix,  and  a  human  skull,  the  objects  of  the  hermit's 
nightly  .and  daily  contemplation,  for  neither  of  them  received 
his  adoration.  That  corruption  had  not  as  yet  crept  into  the 
Christian  Church.  The  hermit  now  lighted  op  a  fire  of  dried 
sticks  (for  the  nights  are  very  piercing  in  the  regions  about 
the  Hellespont  and  the  Bosphorus),  and  then  proceeded  to 
prepare  their  vegetable  meal.  While  he  was  thus  employed, 
his  young  guest  surveyed,  with  surprise,  the  dwelling  which 
he  was  to  inhabit  for  the  night,  A  cold  rock-hole,  on  the  bleak 
summit  of  one  of  the  Thracian  Mils,  seemed  to  him  a  comfort 
less  choice  for  a  weak  and  solitary  old  man.  The  rude 
materials  of  his  scanty  furniture  still  more  surprised  him.  A 
table  fixed  to  the  ground,  a  wooden  bench,  an  earthen  lamp, 
a  number  of  rolls  of  papyrus  and  vellum,  and  a  heap  of  leaves 
in  a  corner,  the  hermit's  bed,  were  all  his  stock.  "Is  it 
possible,"  at  length  he  exclaimed,  "  that  you  can  tenant  this 
comfortless  cave,  with  these  scanty  accommodations,  through 
choice  ?  Go  with  me,  old  man,  to  Constantinople,  and  receive 
from  me  those  conveniences  which  befit  your  years."    "  And 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


445 


what  art  thou  going  to  do  at  Constantinople,  my  young 
friend ?"  said  the  hermit,  "for  thy  dialect  bespeaks  thee  a 
native  of  more  southern  regions.  Am  I  mistaken,  art  thou 
not  an  Athenian  ?"  "  I  am  an  Athenian,"  replied  the  youth, 
<£  by  birth,  but  I  hope  I  am  not  an  Athenian  in  vice.  I  have 
left  my  degenerate  birth-place  in  quest  of  happiness.  I  have 
learned  from  my  master,  Speusippus,  a  genuine  asserter  of 
the  much  belied  doctrines  of  Epicurus,  that  as  a  future  state 
is  a  mere  phantom  and  vagary  of  the  brain,  it  is  the  only  true 
wisdom  to  enjoy  life  while  we  have  it.  But  I  have  learned 
from  him  also,  that  virtue  alone  is  true  enjoyment.  I  am 
resolved  therefore  to  enjoy  life,  and  that  too  with  virtue,  as 
my  companion  and  guide.  My  travels  are  begun  with  the 
design  of  discovering  where  I  can  best  unite  both  objects  j 
enjoyment  the  most  exquisite,  with  virtue  the  most  perfect. 
You  perhaps  may  have  reached  the  latter,  my  good  father; 
the  former  you  have  certainly  missed.  To-morrow  I  shall 
continue  my  search.  At  Constantinople  I  shall  laugh  and 
sing  with  the  gay,  meditate  with  the  sober,  drink  deeply  of 
every  unpolluted  pleasure,  and  taste  all  the  fountains  of 
wisdom  and  philosophy.  I  have  heard  much  of  the  accomplish- 
ments of  the  women  of  Byzantium.  With  us  females  are 
mere  household  slaves ;  here,  I  am  told,  they  have  minds,  I 
almost  promise  myself  that  I  shall  marry,  and  settle  at 
Constantinople,  where  the  loves  and  graces  seem  alone  to 
reside,  and  where  even  the  women  have  minds.  My  good 
lather,  how  the  wind  roars  about  this  aerial  nest  of  yours,  and 
here  you  sit,  during  the  long  cold  nights,  all  alone,  cold  and 
cheerless,  when  Constantinople  is  just  at  your  feet,  with  all 
its  joys,  its  comforts,  and  its  elegancies.  I  perceive  that  the 
philosophers  of  our  sect,  who  succeeded  Epicurus,  were  right, 
when  they  taught  that  there  might  be  virtue  without  enjoy- 
ment, and  that  virtue  without  enjoyment  is  not  worth  the 
having."  The  face  of  the  youth  kindled  with  animation  as  he 
spake  these  words,  and  he  visibly  enjoyed  the  consciousness 
of  superior  intelligence.  The  old  man  sighed,  and  was  silent. 
As  they  ate  their  frugal  supper,  both  parties  seemed  involved 
in  deep  thought.    The  young  traveller  was  cfreaming  of  the 


446 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF 


"Byzantine  women:  his  host  seemed  occupied  with  far  dif- 
ferent meditations.  "  So  you  are  travelling  to  Constantinople 
in  search  of  happiness  ?  "  at  length  exclaimed  the  hermit,  "  I, 
too,  have  been  a  suitor  of  that  divinity,  and  it  may  be  of  use 
to  you  to  hear  how  I  have  fared.  The  history  of  my  life  will 
serve  to  fill  up  the  interval  before  we  retire  to  rest,  and  my 
experience  may  not  prove  altogether  useless  to  one  who  is 
about  to  go  the  same  journey  which  I  have  finished. 

"These  scanty  hairs  of  mine  were  not  always  grey,  nor  these 
limbs  decrepid :  I  was  once  like  thee,  young,  fresh,  and  vigor- 
ous, full  of  delightful  dreams  and  gay  anticipations.  Life 
seemed  a  garden  of  sweets,  a  path  of  roses  ;  and  I  thought  I 
had  but  to  choose  in  what  way  I  would  be  happy.  I  will  pass 
over  the  incidents  of  my  boyhood,  and  come  to  my  maimer 
years.  I  had  scarcely  seen  twenty  summers  when  I  formed 
one  of  those  extravagant  and  ardent  attachments  of  which 
youth  is  so  susceptible.  It  happened  that,  at  that  time,  I  bore 
arms  under  the  emperor  Theodcsius  in  his  expedition  against 
the  Goths,  who  had  overrun  a  part  of  Thrace.  In  our  return 
from  a  successful  campaign  we  staid  some  time  in  the  Greek 
cities  which  border  on  the  Euxine.  In  one  of  these  cities  1 
became  acquainted  with  a  female,  whose  form  was  not  more 
elegant  than  her  mind  was  cultivated  and  her  heart  untainted. 
I  had  done  her  family  some  trivial  services,  and  her  gratitude 
spoke  too  warmly  to  my  intoxicated  brain  to  leave  any  doubt 
on  my  mind  that  she  loved  me.  The  idea  was  too  exquisitely 
pleasing  to  be  soon  dismissed.  I  sought  every  occasion  of 
being  with  her.  Her  mild  persuasive  voice  seemed  like  the 
music  of  heaven  to  my  ears,  after  the  toils  and  roughness  of 
a  soldier's  life.  I  had  a  friend  too,  whose  converse,  next  to 
that  of  the  dear  object  of  my  secret  love,  wa's  most  dear  to  me. 
He  formed  the  third  in  all  our  meetings,  and  beyond  the 
enjoyment  of  the  society  of  these  two  I  had  not  a  wish.  I  had 
never  yet  spoken  explicitly  to  my  female  friend,  but  I  fondly 
hoped  we  understood  each  other.  Why  should  I  dwell  on  the 
subject  ?  I  was  mistaken.  My  friend  threw  liimself  on  my 
mercy.  I  found  that  he,  not  I,  was  the  object  of  her  affec- 
tions. Young  man,  you  may  conceive,  but  I  cannot  describe 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


447 


what  I  felt,  as  I  joined  their  hands.  The  stroke  was  severe, 
and,  for  a  time,  unfitted  nie  for  the  duties  of  my  station.  I 
suffered  the  army  to  leave  the  place  without  accompanying 
it :  and  thus  lost  the  rewards  of  my  past  services,  and  for- 
feited the  favour  of  my  sovereign.  This  was  another  source 
of  anxiety  and  regret  to  me,  as  my  mind  recovered  its  wonted 
tone.  But  the  mind  of  youth,  however  deeply  it  may  feel  for 
awhile,  eventually  rises  up  from  dejection,  and  regains  its 
wonted  elasticity.  That  vigour  by  which  the  spirit  recovers 
itself  from  the  depths  of  useless  regret,  and  enters  upon  new 
prospects  with  its  accustomed  ardour,  is  only  subdued  by  time. 
I  now  applied  myself  to  the  study  of  philosophy,  under  a  Greek 
master,  and  all  my  ambition  was  directed  towards  letters. 
Lut  ambition  is  not  quite  enough  to  fill  a  young  man's  heart. 
I  still  felt  a  void  there,  and  sighed  as  I  reflected  on  the  happi- 
ness of  my  friend.  At  the  time  when  I  visited  the  object  of 
my  first  love,  a  young  christian  woman,  her  frequent  com- 
panion, had  sometimes  taken  my  attention.  She  was  an  Ionian 
by  birth,  and  had  all  the  softness  and  pensive  intelligence 
which  her  countrywomen  are  said  to  possess  whenunvitiated  by 
the  corruption  so  prevalent  in  that  delightful  region.  You  are 
no  stranger  to  the  contempt  with  which  the  Greeks  then 
treated,  and  do  still,  in  some  places,  treat  the  Christians. 
This  young  woman  bore  that  contempt  with  a  calmness  which 
surprised  me.  There  were  then  but  few  converts  to  that  reli- 
gion in  those  parts,  and  its  profession  was  therefore  more 
exposed  to  ridicule  and  persecution  from  its  strangeness. 
Kotwithstanding  her  religion,  I  thought  I  could  love  this 
interesting  and  amiable  female,  and  in  spite  of  my  former  mis- 
take, I  had  the  vanity  to  imagine  I  was  not  indifferent  to  her. 
As  our  intimacy  increased,  I  learned,  to  my  astonishment,  that 
she  regarded  me  as  one  involved  in  ignorance  and  error,  and 
that,  although  she  felt  an  affection  for  me,  yet  she  would  never 
become  my  wife  while  I  remained  devoted  to  the  religion  of 
my  ancestors.  Piqued  at  this  discovery,  I  received  the  books, 
which  she  now  for  the  first  time  put  into  my  hands,  with  pity 
and  contempt.  I  expected  to  find  them  nothing  but  the 
repositories  of  a  miserable  and  deluded  superstition,  more 


448        PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP  H.  K.  WHITE. 


presuming  than  the  mystical  leaves  of  the  Sibyls,  or  the  obscure 
triads  of  Zoroaster.  How  was  I  mistaken  !  There  was  much 
which  I  could  not  at  all  comprehend ;  but,  in  the  midst  of  this 
darkness,  the  effect  of  my  ignorance,  I  discerned  a  system  of 
morality,  so  exalted,  so  exquisitely  pure,  and  so  far  removed 
from  all  I  would  have  conceived  of  the  most  perfect  virtue, 
that  all  the  philosophy  of  the  Grecian  world  seemed  worse 
than  dross  in  the  comparison.  My  former  learning  had  only 
served  to  teach  me  that  something  was  wanting  to  complete 
the  systems  of  philosophers.  Here  that  invisible  link  was 
supplied,  and  I  could  even  then  observe  a  harmony  and  consis- 
tency in  the  whole,  which  carried  irresistible  conviction  to  my 
mind.  I  will  not  enlarge  on  this  subject.  Christianity  is  not 
a  mere  set  of  opinions  to  be  embraced  by  the  understanding. 
It  is  the  work  of  the  heart  as  well  as  the  head.  Let  it  suffice 
to  say,  that,  iu  time,  I  became  a  Christian  and  the  husband  ol 
SaDphira, 

#         *         0  « 


449 


REFLECTIONS. 


ON  PRAYER. 

If  tliere  be  any  duty  which  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  seems  t# 
have  considered  as  more  indispensably  necessary  towards  the 
formation  of  a  true  Christian,  it  is  that  of  prayer.  He  has  taken 
every  opportunity  of  impressing  on  our  minds  the  absolute 
need  in  which  we  stand  of  the  divine  assistance,  both  to  persist 
in  the  paths  of  righteousness  and  to  fly  from  the  allurements 
of  a  fascinating  but  dangerous  life ;  and  he  has  directed  us  to 
the  only  means  of  obtaining  that  assistance  in  constant  and 
habitual  appeals  to  the  throne  of  Grace.  Prayer  is  certainly 
the  foundation-stone  of  the  superstructure  of  a  religious  life, 
for  a  man  can  neither  arrive  at  true  piety,  nor  persevere  in  its 
ways  when  attained,  unless  with  sincere  and  continued  fer- 
vency, and  with  the  most  unaffected  anxiety,  he  implore 
Almighty  God  to  grant  him  Ms  perpetual  grace,  to  guard  and 
restrain  him  from  all  those  derelictions  of  heart  to  which  we 
are,  by  nature,  but  too  prone.  I  should  think  it  an  insult  to 
the  understanding  of  a  Christian  to  dwell  on  the  necessity  of 
prayer,  and  before  we  can  harangue  an  infidel  on  its  efficacy, 
we  must  convince  him,  not  only  that  the  being  to  whom  we 
address  ourselves  really  exists,  but  that  he  condescends  to 
hear  and  to  answer  our  humble  supplications.  As  these 
objects  are  foreign  to  my  present  purpose,  I  shall  take  my 
leave  of  the  necessity  of  prayer,  as  acknowledged  by  all  to 
whom  this  paper  is  addressed,  and  shall  be  content  to  expatiate 
on  the  strong  inducements  which  we  have  to  lift  up  our  souls 
to  our  Maker  in  the  language  of  supplication  and  of  praise. 
To  depict  the  happiness  which  results  to  the  man  of  true  piety 

G  is 


450 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


from  the  exercise  of  this  duty,  and,  lastly,  to  warn  mankind, 
lest  their  fervency  should  carry  them  into  the  extreme  of 
f  anaticism,  and  their  prayers,  instead  of  being  silent  and  unas- 
suming expressions  of  gratitude  to  their  Maker,  and  humble 
entreaties  for  his  favouring  grace,  should  degenerate  into 
clamorous  vociferations  and  insolent  gesticulations,  utterly 
repugnant  to  the  true  spirit  of  prayer  and  to  the  language  of 
a  creature  addressing  his  Creator. 

There  is  such  an  exalted  delight  to  a  regenerate  being  in 
the  act  of  prayer,  and  he  anticipates  with  so  much  pleasure, 
amid  the  toils  of  business,  and  the  crowds  of  the  world,  the 
moment  when  he  shall  be  able  to  pour  out  his  soul  without 
interruption  into  the  bosom  of  his  Maker,  that  I  am  persuaded, 
that  the  degree  of  desire  or  repugnance  which  a  man  feels  to 
the  performance  of  this  amiable  duty  is  an  infallible  criterion 
of  his  acceptance  with  God.  Let  the  unhappy  child  of  dissi- 
pation— let  the  impure  voluptuary  boast  of  his  short  hours  of 
exquisite  enjoyment;  even  in  the  degree  of  bliss  they  are 
infinitely  inferior  to  the  delight  of  which  the  righteous  man 
participates  in  his  private  devotions,  while  in  their  opposite 
consequences  they  lead  to  a  no  less  wide  extreme  than  heaven 
and  hell,  a  state  of  positive  happiness  and  a  state  of  positive 
misery.  If  there  were  no  other  inducement  to  prayer  than 
the  very  gratification  it  imparts  to  the  soul,  it  would  deserve 
to  be  regarded  as  the  most  important  object  of  a  Christian; 
for  no  where  else  could  he  purchase  so  much  calmness,  so 
much  resignation,  and  so  much  of  that  peace  and  repose  of 
spirit,  in  which  consists  the  chief  happiness  of  this  otherwise 
dark  and  stormy  being.  But  to  prayer,  besides  the  inducement 
of  momentary  gratification,  the  very  self-love  implanted  in  our 
bosoms  would  lead  us  to  resort,  as  the  chief  good,  for  our 
Lord  hath  said,  "  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  to  thee ;  knock, 
and  it  shall  be  opened;"  and  not  a  supplication  made  in  the 
true  spirit  of  faith  and  humility  but  shall  be  answered ;  not  a 
request  which  is  urged  with  unfeigned  submission  and  low- 
liness of  spirit  but  shall  be  granted,  if  it  be  consistent  with 
our  happiness  either  temporal  or  eternal.  Of  this  happiness, 
however,  the  Lord  God  is  the  only  judge;  but  this  we  do 


HENRY  KTRKE  WHITE. 


451 


know,  that  whether  our  requests  be  granted,  or  whether  they 
be  refused,  all  is  working  together  for  our  ultimate  benefit. 

When  I  say,  that  such  of  our  requests  and  solicitations  as 
are  urged  in  the  true  spirit  of  meekness,  humility,  and  sub- 
mission, will  indubitably  be  answered,  I  would  wish  to  draw  a 
line  between  supplications  so  urged,  and  those  violent  and 
vehement  declamations,  which,  under  the  name  of  prayers,  are 
sometimes  heard  to  proceed  from  the  lips  of  men  professing  to 
worship  God  in  the  spirit  of  meekness  and  truth.  Surely  I 
need  not  impress  on  any  reasonable  mind,  how  directly  con- 
trary these  inflamed  and  bombastic  harangues  are  to  every 
precept  of  Christianity,  and  every  idea  of  the  deference  due 
from  a  poor  worm,  like  man,  to  the  Omnipotent  and  all  great 
God.  Can  we  hesitate  a  moment,  as  to  which  is  more  accept- 
able in  his  sight — the  diffident,  the  lowly,  the  retiring,  and  yet 
solemn  and  impressive  form  of  worship  of  our  excellent  Church, 
and  the  wild  and  laboured  exclamations,  the  authoritative 
and  dictatory  clamours  of  men,  who,  forgetting  the  immense 
distance  at  which  they  stand  from  the  awful  Being  whom  they 
address  boldly  and  with  unblushing  front,  speak  to  their  God 
as  to  an  equal,  and  almost  dare  to  prescribe  to  his  infinite 
wisdom,  the  steps  it  shall  pursue.  How  often  has  the  silent 
yet  eloquent  eye  of  misery  wrung  from  the  reluctant  hand  of 
charity  that  relief  which  has  been  denied  to  the  loud  and 
importunate  beggar ;  and,  is  Heaven  to  be  taken  by  storm  ? 
Are  we  to  wrest  the  Almighty  from  his  purposes  by  vociferation 
and  importunity  ?  God  forbid !  It  is  a  fair  and  a  reasonable^ 
though  a  melancholy  inference,  that  the  Lord  shuts  his  ears 
against  prayers  like  these,  and  leaves  the  deluded  supplicants 
to  follow  the  impulse  of  their  own  headstrong  passions, 
without  a  guide,  and  destitute  of  every  ray  of  his  pure  and 
holy  light. 

Those  mock  apostles,  who  thus  disgrace  the  worship  of  the 
true  God  by  their  extravagance,  are  very  fond  of  appearing  to 
imitate  the  conduct  of  our  Saviour  during  his  mortal  pere- 
grination ;  but  how  contrary  were  his  habits  to  those  of  these 
deluded  men !  Did  he  teach  his  disciples  to  insult  the  ear  ot 
Heaven  with  noise  and  clamour  ?    Were  his  precepts  those  of 


452 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


fanaticism  and  passion?  Did  he  inflame  the  minds  of  his 
nearers  with  vehement  and  declamatory  harangues  ?  Did  he 
pray  with  all  this  confidence — this  arrogance — this  assurance  ? 
How  different  was  his  conduct !  *  He  divested  wisdom  of  all 
its  pomp  and  parade,  in  order  to  suit  it  to  the  capacities  of  the 
meanest  of  his  auditors.  He  spake  to  them  in  the  lowly 
language  of  parable  and  similitude,  and  when  he  prayed,  did 
he  instruct  his  hearers  to  attend  to  him  with  a  loud  chorus  of 
Amens  ?  Did  he  (participating  as  he  did  in  the  Godhead), 
did  he  assume  the  tone  of  sufficiency  and  the  language  of 
assurance  ?  Tar  from  it !  he  prayed,  and  he  instructed  his 
disciples  to  pray,  in  lowliness  and  meekness  of  spirit ;  he 
instructed  them  to  approach  the  throne  of  Grace  with  fear  and 
trembling,  silently  and  with  the  deepest  awe  and  veneration ; 
and  he  evinced  by  his  condemnation  of  the  prayer  of  the  self 
sufficient  pharisee,  opposed  to  that  of  the  diffident  publican, 
the  light  in  which  those  were  considered  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Lord,  who,  setting  the  terrors  of  his  Godhead  at  defiance,  and 
boldly  building  on  their  own  unworthiness,  approached  him 
with  confidence  and  pride.       *      *  * 


There  is  nothing  so  indispensably  necessary  towards  the 
establishment  of  future  earthly,  as  well  as  heavenly  happiness, 
as  early  impressions  of  piety.  Eor  as  religion  is  the  sole 
source  of  all  human  welfare  and  peace,  so  habits  of  religious 
reflection,  in  the  spring  of  life,  are  the  only  means  of  arriving 
at  a  due  sense  of  the  importance  of  divine  concerns  in  age, 
except  by  the  bitter  and  hazardous  roads  of  repentance  and 
remorse.  There  is  not  a  more  awful  spectacle  in  nature  than 
the  death-bed  of  a  late  repentance.  The  groans  of  agony 
which  attend  ihe  separation  of  the  soul  from  the  body,  height- 
ened by  the  heart-piercing  exclamation  of  mental  distress,  the 
dreadful  ebullitions  of  horror  and  remorse,  intermingled  with 
the  half-fearful,  but  fervent  deprecations  of  the  divine  wrath, 
and  prayers  for  the  divine  mercy,  joined  to  the  pathetic  implor- 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


453 


ings  to  the  friends  who  stand  weeping  around  the  bed  of  the 
sinner  to  pray  for  him,  and  to  take  warning  from  his  awful 
end,  contribute  to  render  this  scene  such  an  impressive  and 
terrible  memento  of  the  state  of  those  who  have  neglected 
their  souls,  as  must  bring  to  a  due  sense  of  his  duty  the  most, 
hardened  of  infidels. 

It  is  to  ensure  you,  my  young  friends,  as  far  as  precept  can 
ensure  you,  from  horrors  like;  these  in  your  last  moments,  that 
I  write  this  little  book,  in  the  hopes,  that  through  the  blessing 
of  the  Divine  Being,  it  may  be  useful  in  inducing  you  to  reflect 
on  the  importance  of  early  piety,  and  lead  you  into  the 
cheerful  performance  of  your  duties  to  God  and  to  your  own 
souls.  In  the  pursuit  of  this  plan,  I  shall,  first,  consider  the 
bliss  which  results  from  a  pious  disposition,  and  the  horrors  of 
a  wicked  one.  Secondly,  the  necessity  of  an  early  attention 
to  the  concerns  of  the  soul  towards  the  establishment  of 
permanent  religion,  and  its  consequent  happiness;  and, 
thirdly,  I  shall  point  out,  and  contrast,  the  last  moments  of 
those  who  have  acted  in  conformity,  or  in  contradiction,  to 
the  rules  here  laid  down. 

The  contrast  between  the  lives  of  the  good  and  the  wicked 
man  affords  such  convincing  arguments  in  support  of  the 
excellence  of  religion,  that  even  those  infidels  who  have 
dared  to  assert  their  disbelief  of  the  doctrine  of  revelation, 
have  confessed,  that  in  a  political  point  of  view,  if  in  no  other, 
it  ought  to  be  maintained.  Compare  the  peaceful  and  collected 
course  of  the  virtuous  and  pious  man  with  the  turbulent 
irregularity  and  violence  of  him  who  neglects  his  soul  for 
the  allurements  of  vice,  and  judge  for  yourselves  of  the 
policy  of  I  he  conduct  of  each,  even  in  this  world.  Whose 
pleasures  are  the  most  exquisite?  Whose  delights  the 
most  lasting?  Whose  state  is  the  most  enviable?  His, 
who  barters  his  hopes  of  eternal  welfare  for  a  few  fleeting 
moments  of  brutal  gratification,  or  his,  who  while  he  keeps 
a  future  state  alone  in  his  view,  finds  happiness  in  the  con- 
scientious performance  of  his  duties,  and  the  scrupulous 
fulfilment  of  the  end  of  his  sojourn  here  ?  Believe  me,  my 
friends,  there  is  no  comparison  between  them.    The  joys  of 


454 


PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OP 


the  infatuated  mortal  who  sacrifices  his  soul  to  his  sensualities 
are  mixed  with  bitterness  and  anguish.  The  voice  of  con 
science  rises  distinctly  to  his  ear,  amid  the  shouts  of  intern 
perance  and  the  sallies  of  obstreperous  mirth.  In  the  hour 
of  rejoicing  she  whispers  her  appalling  monitions  to  him,  ana 
his  heart  sinks  within  him,  and  the  smile  of  triumphant 
villany  is  converted  into  the  ghastly  grin  of  horror  and  hope- 
lessness. But,  oh !  in  the  languid  intervals  of  dissipation^ 
in  the  dead  hour  of  the  night,  when  all  is  solitude  and  silence, 
when  the  soul  is  driven  to  commune  with  itself,  and  the  voice 
of  remorse,  whose  whispers  were  before  half  drowned  in  the 
noise  of  riot,  rise  dreadfully  distinct — what ! — what  are  his 
emotions! — Who  can  paint  his  agonies,  his  execrations,  his 
despair!  Let  that  man  lose  again,  in  the  vortex  of  fashion, 
and  folly,  and  vice,  the  remembrance  of  his  horrors ;  let  him 
smile,  let  him  laugh  and  be  merry :  believe  me,  my  dear 
readers,  he  is  not  happy,  he  is  not  careless,  he  is  not  the 
jovial  being  he  appears  to  be.  His  heart  is  heavy  within 
him ;  he  cannot  stifle  the  reflections  which  assail  him  in  the 
very  moment  of  enjoyment;  but  strip  the  painted  veil  from 
his  bosom,  lay  aside  the  trappings  of  folly,  and  that  man  is 
miserable,  and  not  only  so,  but  he  has  purchased  that  misery 
at  the  expense  of  etrrnal  torment. 

Let  us  oppose  to  this  awful  picture  the  life  of  the  good  man , 
of  him  who  rises  in  the  morning,  with  cheerfulness,  to  praise 
his  Creator  for  all  the  good  he  hath  bestowed  upon  him, 
and  to  perform  with  studious  exactness  the  duties  of  his 
station,  and  lays  himself  down  on  his  pillow  in  the  evening 
in  the  sweet  consciousness  of  the  applause  of  his  own 
heart.  Place  this  man  on  the  stormy  seas  of  misfortune  and 
sorrow — press  him  with  afflictive  dispensations  of  Providence — 
snatch  from  his  arms  the  object  of  his  affections — separate  him 
for  ever  from  all  he  loved  and  held  dear  on  earth,  and  leave 
him  isolated  and  an  outcast  in  the  world ; — he  is  calm — he  is 
composed — he  is  grateful — he  weeps,  for  human  nature  is 
weak,  but  he  still  preserves  his  composure  and  resignation — 
lie  still  looks  up  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  with  thankfulness 
and  praise,  and  perseveres  with  calmness  and  fortitude  in  the 


HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 


455 


paths  of  righteousness.  His  disappointments  cannot  overwhelm 
him,  for  Ins  chief  hopes  were  placed  far,  very  far,  beyond  the 
reach  of  human  vicissitude.  "  He  hath  chosen  that  good  par 
which  none  can  take  away  from  him." 

Here  then  Kes  the  great  excellence  of  religion  and  piety 
they  not  only  lead  to  eternal  happiness,  but  to  the  happiness 
of  this  world ;  they  not  only  ensure  everlasting  bliss,  but  then 
are  the  sole  means  of  arriving  at  that  degree  of  felicity  which 
this  dark  and  stormy  being  is  capable  of,  and  are  the  sole  sup- 
ports in  the  hour  of  adversity  and  affliction.  How  infatuated 
then  must  that  man  be  who  can  wilfully  shut  his  eyes  to  his 
own  welfare,  and  deviate  from  the  paths  of  righteousness 
which  lead  to  bliss.  Even  allowing  hirn  to  entertain  the  erro- 
neous notion  that  religion  does  not  lead  to  happiness  in  this 
life,  his  conduct  is  incompatible  with  every  idea  of  a  reason- 
able being.  In  the  "  Spectator"  we  find  the  following  image, 
employed  to  induce  a  conviction  of  the  magnitude  of  this 
truth :  "  Supposing  the  whole  body  of  the  earth  were  a  great 
ball,-  or  mass  of  the  finest  sand,  and  that  a  single  grain,  or 
particle  ol  this  sand,  should  be  annihilated  every  thousand 
years ;  supposing  then  that  you  had  it  in  your  choice  to  be 
happy  all  the  while  this  prodigious  mass  was  consuming,  by 
this  slow  method,  till  there  was  not  a  grain  of  it  left,  on  con- 
dition that  you  were  to  be  miserable  ever  after;  or  supposing 
that  you  might  be  happy  for  ever  after,  on  condition  you 
would  be  miserable  till  the  whole  mass  of  sand  were  thus  anni- 
hilated, at  the  rate  of  one  sand  a  thousand  years ;  which  of 
these  two  cases  would  you  make  your  choice  ?" 

"U  must  be  confessed  that  in  this  case  so  many    *   *  * 


45G         PROSE  COMPOSITIONS  OF  H.  K.  WHITE. 

The  life  of  man  is  transient  and  unstable;  its  fairest  passages 
are  but  a  lighter  shade  of  evil,  and  yet  those  passages  form 
but  a  disproportionate  part  of  the  picture.  We  a]  I  seek  hap- 
piness, though  with  different  degrees  of  avidity,  while  the 
fickle  object  of  our  pursuits  continually  evades  the  grasp  of 
those  who  are  the  most  ea^er  in  the  chase;  and,  perhaps,  at 
last  fhrows  herself  Into  the  arms  of  those  who  had  entirely 
lost  sight  of  her,  and  who,  when  they  are  most  blessed  with 
her  enjoyment,  are  least  conscious  that  they  possess  her. 
Were  the  objects  in  which  we  placed  the  consummation  of  our 
wishes  always  virtuous,  and  the  means  employed  to  arrive  at 
the  bourn  of  our  desires  uniformly  good,  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  the  aggregate  of  mankind  would  be  as  happy  as  is 
consistent  with  the  state  in  which  they  live ;  but,  unfortunately, 
vicious  men  pursue  vicious  ends  by  vicious  means,  and  by  so 
doing  not  only  ensure  their  own  misery,  but  they  overturn 
and  destroy  the  fair  designs  of  the  wiser  and  the  better  of 
their  kind.  Thus  he  who  has  no  idea  of  a  bliss  beyond  the 
gratification'  of  his  brutal  appetites,  involves  in  the  crime  of 
seduction  the  peace  and  the  repose  of  a  good  and  happy 
family,  and  an  individual  act  of  evil  extends  itself  by  a  con- 
tinued impulse  over  a  large  portion  of  society.  It  is  thus  that 
men  of  bad  minds  become  the  pests  of  the  societies  of  which 
they  happen  to  be  members.  It  .  is  thus  that  the  virtuous 
among  men  pay  the  bitter  penalty  of  the  crimes  and  follies  of 
their  unworthy  fellows. 

Men  who  have  passed  their  whole  lives  in  the  lap  of  luxury 
and  enjoyment,  have  no  idea  of  misery  beyond  that  of  which 
they  happen  to  be  the  individual  objects. 

•      .   *         »  .§ 


THE  ENJ>. 


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